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CECILIA 


CECILIA 


a  ^tot^t  of  jwonern  Eome 


BY 


F.   MARION   CRAWFORD 

AUTHOR  OF  "  SARACINESCA,"   "MARIETTA,"  "AVE  ROMA 
IMMORTALIS/'  ETC. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Ltd. 
1904 

AU  rights  reserved 


COPTBIGHT,  1902, 

By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  October,  1902.      Reprinted  October, 
1902 ;  February,  1904. 


Seventy -second  Thousand 


if-  NORWOOD  PRESS  ¥: 

J.  S.  GUSHING  *  CO.  —  BERWICK  &  SMITH 
^  NORWOOD  MASS.  U.S.A.  ^ 


CECILIA 


I 


912687 


CECILIA 

A  STORY   OF  MODERN   ROME 

CHAPTER  I 

Two  men  were  sitting  side  by  side  on  a  stone  bench 
in  the  forgotten  garden  of  the  Arcadian  Society,  in 
Rome  ;  and  it  was  in  early  spring,  not  long  ago.  Few 
people,  Romans  or  strangers,  ever  find  their  way  to  that 
lonely  and  beautiful  spot  beyond  the  Tiber,  niched  in  a 
hollow  of  the  Janiculum  below  San  Pietro  in  Montorio, 
where  Beatrice  Cenci  sleeps.  The  Arcadians  were 
men  and  women  who  loved  poetry  in  an  artificial  time, 
took  names  of  shepherds  and  shepherdesses,  rhymed  as 
best  they  could,  met  in  pleasant  places  to  recite  their 
verses,  and  played  that  the  world  was  young,  and 
gentle,  and  sweet,  and  unpoisoned,  just  when  it  had 
declined  to  one  of  its  recurring  periods  of  vicious  old 
age.  The  Society  did  not  die  with  its  times,  and  it 
still  exists,  less  sprightly,  less  ready  to  mask  in  pasto- 
rals, but  rhyming,  meeting,  and  reciting  verses  now 
and  then,  in  the  old  manner,  though  rarely  in  the  old 
haunts.  Even  now  fresh  inscriptions  in  honour  of  the 
Arcadians  are  set  into  the  stuccoed  walls  of  the  little 
terraced  garden  under  the  hill. 


CECILIA 


1 

V2&1 


It  is  very  peaceful  there.  Above,  the  concave  wal 
of  the  small  house  of  meeting  looks  down  upon  circular 
tiers  of  brick  -seats^,  and  beyond  these  there  are  bushes 
and  a  little  fountain.  To  the  right  and  left,  symmetri- 
cal walks  lead  down  in  two  wide  curves  to  the  lower 
levels,  where  the  water  falls  again  into  a  basin  in  a 
shaded  grotto,  and  rises  the  third  time  in  another 
fountain.  An  ancient  stone-pine  tree  springs  straight 
upwards,  spreading  out  lovely  branches.  There  are 
bushes  again  and  a  magnolia,  and  a  Japanese  medlar, 
and  there  is  moss.  The  stone  mouldings  of  the  foun- 
tains are  rich  with  the  green  tints  of  time.  The  air  is 
softly  damp,  smelling  of  leaves  and  flowers ;  there  are 
corners  into  which  the  sunlight  never  shines,  little 
mysteries  of  perpetual  shade  that  are  full  of  sadness  in 
winter,  but  in  summer  repeat  the  fanciful  confidences 
of  a  delicious  and  imaginary  past. 

The  Sister  who  had  let  in  the  two  visitors  had  left 
them  to  themselves,  and  had  gone  back  to  the  little 
convent  door ;  for  she  was  the  portress,  and  therefore 
a  small  judge  of  character  in  her  way,  and  she  under- 
stood that  the  two  gentlemen  were  not  like  the  other 
half-dozen  strangers  who  came  every  year  to  see  the 
garden,  and  went  away  after  ten  minutes,  dropping 
half  a  franc  into  her  hand  for  the  Sisters,  and  not  even 
lifting  their  hats  to  her  as  she  let  them  out.  These 
two  evidently  knew  the  place ;  they  spoke  to  each  other 
as  intimate  friends  do ;  they  had  come  to  enjoy  the 
peace  and  silence  for  an  hour,  and  they  would  neither 
carry  off  the  flowers  from  the  magnolia  tree,  as  some 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  3 

did,  nor  scrawl  their  names  in  pencil  on  the  stucco. 
Therefore  they  might  safely  be  left  to  their  own  leisure 
and  will. 

The  men  were  friends,  as  the  portress  had  guessed ; 
they  were  very  unlike,  and  their  unlikeness  was  in  part 
the  reason  of  their  friendship.  The  one  was  squarely 
built,  of  average  height,  a  man  of  action  at  every  point, 
with  bold  blue  eyes  that  could  be  piercing,  a  rugged 
Roman  head,  prominent  at  the  brows,  short  reddish 
hair  and  pointed  beard,  great  jaw  and  cheek-bones,  a 
tanned  and  freckled  skin.  He  sat  leaning  back,  one 
leg  crossed  over  the  other,  the  knee  that  was  upper- 
most pressing  against  the  stout  stick  he  held  across  it, 
and  the  big  veins  swelled  on  his  hands  and  wrists.  He 
was  a  sailor,  and  a  born  fighting  man ;  and  in  ten  years 
of  service  he  had  managed  to  find  himself  in  every  affair 
that  had  concerned  Italy  in  the  remotest  degree,  in 
Africa,  in  China,  and  elsewhere.  He  was  now  at  home 
on  leave,  expecting  immediate  promotion.  He  bore  a 
historical  name ;  he  was  called  Lamberto  Lamberti. 

His  companion  sat  with  folded  arms  and  bent  head, 
a  rather  dark  young  man  with  deep-set  grey  eyes  that 
often  looked  black,  a  thoughtful  face,  a  grave  mouth 
that  could  smile  suddenly  and  almost  strangely,  with 
a  child's  sweet  frankness,  and  yet  with  a  look  that  was 
tender  and  human  —  the  smile  of  a  man  who  under- 
stands the  meaning  of  life  and  yet  does  not  despise  it. 
Most  people  would  have  taken  him  for  a  man  of  leisure, 
probably  given  to  reading  or  the  cultivation  of  some 
artistic  taste.     Guido  d'Este  was  one  of  those  Italians 


4  CECILIA 

who  are  content  to  survive  from  a  very  beautiful  past 
without  joining  the  frantic  rush  for  a  very  problematic 
future.  But  there  was  more  in  him  than  a  love  of 
books  and  a  knowledge  of  pictures;  for  he  was  a 
dreamer,  and  there  are  dreams  better  worth  dreaming 
than  many  deeds  are  worth  the  doing. 

"  I  sometimes  wonder  what  would  have  happened  to 
you  and  me,"  he  said,  after  there  had  been  a  long  pause, 
"if  we  had  been  obliged  to  live  each  other's  lives." 

"We  should  both  have  been  bored  to  extinction," 
answered  Lamberti,  without  hesitating. 

"I  suppose  so,"  assented  Guido,  and  relapsed  into 
silence. 

He  was  very  glad  that  he  was  not  condemned  to  the 
life  of  a  naval  officer,  to  the  perpetual  motion  of  active 
service,  to  the  narrow  quarters  of  a  lieutenant  on  a 
modern  man-of-war,  to  the  daily  companionship  of  a 
dozen  or  eighteen  other  officers  with  whom  he  could 
certainly  not  have  an  idea  in  common.  It  would  be  a 
detestable  thing  to  be  sent  at  a  moment's  notice  from 
one  end  of  the  world  to  the  other,  from  heat  to  cold, 
from  cold  to  heat,  through  all  sorts  of  weather,  only  to 
be  a  part  of  an  organisation,  a  wheel  in  a  machine,  a 
pawn  in  some  one's  game  of  chess.  He  had  been  on 
board  a  line-of -battle  ship  once  to  see  his  friend  off,  and 
had  mentally  noted  the  discomfort.  There  was  nothing 
in  the  cabin  but  a  bunk  built  over  a  chest  of  drawers, 
a  narrow  transom,  a  wash-stand  that  disappeared  into  a 
recess  when  pushed  back,  an  exiguous  table  fastened  to 
a  bulkhead,   and  one  camp-stool.     There  was  no  par- 


A   STOKY   OF   MODERN  KOMB  5 

ticular  means  of  ventilation,  and  the  place  smelt  of  cold 
iron,  paint,  and  soft  soap.  Yet  his  friend  had  been 
about  to  live  at  least  six  months  in  this  cell,  which 
would  have  been  condemned  as  too  narrow  in  an  ordi- 
narily well-managed  prison. 

Nevertheless,  it  would  be  pleasant  in  itself,  no  doubt, 
to  be  a  living  part  of  what  most  men  only  read  about, 
to  really  know  what  fighting  meant,  to  be  one  of  the  few 
who  are  invariably  chosen  first  for  missions  of  danger 
and  difficulty.  Besides,  Guido  d'Este  was  just  now 
in  a  very  difficult  situation,  which  might  become  dan- 
gerous, and  from  which  he  saw  no  immediate  means  of 
escape ;  and,  for  once  in  his  life,  he  almost  envied  his 
friend  his  simple  career,  in  which  nothing  seemed  to  be 
required  of  a  man  but  courage  and  obedience. 

"I  suppose  I  should  be  bored,"  he  said  again,  after  a 
short  and  thoughtful  pause,  "but  I  would  rather  be 
bored  than  live  the  life  I  am  living. " 

The  sailor  looked  at  him  sharply  a  moment,  and  in- 
stantly understood  that  Guido  had  brought  him  to  the 
little  garden  in  order  to  tell  him  something  of  impor- 
tance without  risk  of  interruption. 

"  Have  you  had  more  trouble  with  that  horrible  old 
woman?  "   he  asked  roughly. 

"Yes.  She  is  draining  the  life  out  of  me.  She  will 
ruin  me  in  the  end." 

Guido  did  not  look  up  as  he  spoke,  and  he  slowly 
tapped  the  hard  earth  with  the  toe  of  his  shoe.  He  felt 
very  helpless,  and  he  shook  his  head  over  his  misfor- 
tunes, which  seemed  great. 


6  CECILIA 

"That  comes  of  being  connected  with  royalty,"  said 
Lamberti,  in  the  same  rough  tone. 

"Is  it  my  fault?"  asked  Guido,  with  a  melancholy 
smile. 

The  sailor  snorted  discontentedly,  and  changed  his 
position. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  "  he  asked  presently.      "  Tell  me. " 

"Nothing." 

"If  I  were  only  rich!  " 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  Guido,  "she  demands  a 
million  of  francs !  " 

"  There  are  men  who  have  fifty.  Would  a  hundred 
thousand  francs  be  of  any  use  ?  " 

"Not  the  least.     Besides,  that  is  all  you  have." 

"What  would  that  matter?"  asked  Lamberti. 

Guido  looked  up  at  last,  for  he  knew  that  the  words 
were  true  and  earnest. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  answered.  "  I  know  you  would  do 
that  for  me.  But  it  would  not  be  of  any  use.  Things 
have  gone  too  far." 

"Shall  I  go  to  her  and  talk  the  matter  over?  I  be- 
lieve I  could  frighten  her  into  justice.  After  all,  she 
has  no  legal  claim  upon  you." 

Guido  shook  his  head. 

"That  is  not  the  question,"  he  answered.  "She 
never  pretends  that  her  right  is  legal,  for  it  is  not. 
On  the  contrary,  she  says  it  is  a  question  of  honour, 
that  I  have  lost  her  money  for  her  in  speculations,  and 
that  I  am  bound  to  restore  it  to  her.  It  is  true  that  I 
only  did  with  it  exactly  what  she  wished,  and  what  she 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  7 

insisted  that  I  should  do,  against  my  own  judgment. 
She  knows  that." 

"  But  then,  I  do  not  see  —  " 

"She  also  knows  that  I  cannot  prove  it,"  interrupted 
Guido,  "  and  as  she  is  perfectly  unscrupulous,  she  will 
use  everything  against  me  to  make  out  that  I  have 
deliberately  cheated  her  out  of  the  money." 

"  But  it  cannot  make  so  much  difference  to  her,  after 
all,"  objected  Lamberti.  "She  must  have  an  immense 
fortune  somewhere." 

"  She  is  a  miser,  in  spite  of  that  sudden  attack  of  the 
gaming  fever.     Money  is  the  only  passion  of  her  life." 

"Possibly,  though  I  doubt  it.  There  is  Monsieur 
Leroy,  you  know." 

Lamberti  spoke  the  name  with  contempt,  but  Guido 
said  nothing,  for,  after  all,  the  high  and  mighty  lady 
about  whom  they  were  talking  was  his  father's  sister, 
and  he  preferred  not  to  talk  scandal  about  her,  even 
with  his  intimate  friend. 

"If  matters  grow  worse,"  said  Lamberti,  "there  are 
at  least  the  worthless  securities  in  her  name,  to  prove 
that  you  acted  for  her." 

"You  are  mistaken.  That  is  the  worst  of  it.  Every- 
thing was  done  in  my  name,  for  she  would  not  let  her 
own  appear.  She  used  to  give  me  the  money  in  cash, 
telling  me  exactly  what  to  do  with  it,  and  I  brought 
her  the  broker's  accounts." 

"  I  daresay  she  made  you  sign  receipts  for  the  sums 
she  gave  you,"  laughed  Lamberti. 

"Yes,  she  did." 


8  CECILIA 

Lamberti  sat  up  suddenly  and  stared  at  his  friend. 
Such  folly  was  hardly  to  be  believed. 

"She  is  capable  of  saying  that  she  lent  you  the 
money  on  your  promise!  "  he  cried. 

"  That  is  exactly  what  she  threatens  to  do,"  answered 
Guido  d'Este,  dejectedly.  "As  I  cannot  possibly  pay 
it,  she  can  force  me  to  do  one  of  two  things." 

"What  things?" 

"Either  to  disappear  from  honourable  society  and 
begin  life  somewhere  else,  or  else  to  make  an  end  of 
myself.  And  she  will  do  it.  I  have  felt  for  more  than 
a  year  that  she  means  to  ruin  me." 

Lamberti  set  his  teeth,  and  stared  at  the  stone-pine. 
If  Guido  had  not  been  just  the  man  he  was,  sensitive 
to  morbidness  where  his  honour  was  concerned,  the 
situation  might  have  seemed  less  desperate.  If  his 
aunt,  her  Serene  Highness  the  Princess  Anatolie,  had 
not  been  a  monster  of  avarice,  selfishness,  and  vindic- 
tiveness,  there  would  perhaps  have  been  some  hope  of 
moving  her.  As  it  was,  matters  looked  ill,  and  to  make 
them  worse  there  was  the  well-known  fact  that  Guido 
had  formerly  played  high  and  had  lost  considerable 
sums  at  cards.  It  would  be  easy  to  make  society  be- 
lieve that  he  had  paid  his  debts,  which  had  always 
been  promptly  settled,  with  money  which  the  Princess 
had  intrusted  to  him  for  investment. 

"  What  possible  object  can  she  have  in  ruining  you  ?  " 
asked  Lamberti,  presently. 

"I  cannot  guess,"  Guido  answered  after  another  short 
pause.     "I  have  little  enough  left  as  it  is,  except  the 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  9 

bare  chance  of  inheriting  something,  some  day,  from 
my  brother,  who  likes  me  about  as  much  as  my  aunt 
does,  and  is  not  bound  to  leave  me  a  penny." 

"But,  after  all,"  argued  Lamberti,  "you  are  the  only 
heir  left  to  either  of  them." 

"I  suppose  so,"  assented  Guido  in  an  uncertain  tone. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Nothing  —  it  does  not  matter.  Of  course,"  he  con- 
tinued quietly,  "  this  may  go  on  for  some  time,  but  it 
can  only  end  in  one  way,  sooner  or  later.  I  shall  be 
lucky  if  I  am  only  reduced  to  starvation." 

"You  might  marry  an  heiress,"  suggested  Lamberti, 
as  a  last  resource. 

"And  pay  my  aunt  out  of  my  wife's  fortune?  No. 
I  will  not  do  that." 

"  Of  course  not.  But  I  should  think  that  if  ever  an 
honest  man  could  be  tempted  to  do  such  a  thing,  it 
would  be  in  some  such  case  as  yours." 

"  Perhaps  to  save  his  father  from  ruin,  or  his  mother 
from  starvation,"  said  Guido.  "I  could  understand  it 
then ;  but  not  to  save  himself.  Besides,  no  heiress  in 
our  world  would  marry  me,  for  I  have  nothing  to  offer." 

Lamberti  smiled  incredulously.  He  was  not  a  cynic, 
because  he  believed  in  action ;  but  his  faith  in  the  dis- 
interested simplicity  of  mankind  was  not  strong.  He 
had  also  some  experience  of  the  world,  and  was  quite 
ready  to  admit  that  a  marriageable  heiress  might  fairly 
expect  an  equivalent  for  the  fortune  she  was  to  bring 
her  husband.  Yet  he  wholly  rejected  the  statement 
that  Guido  d'Este  had  nothing  of  social  value  to  offer, 


10  CECILIA 

merely  because  he  was  now  a  poor  man  and  had  never 
been  a  very  rich  one.  Guido  had  neither  lands  nor 
money,  and  bore  no  title,  it  was  true;  and  could  but 
just  live  like  a  gentleman  on  the  small  allowance  that 
was  paid  him  yearly  according  to  his  father's  will. 
But  there  was  no  secret  about  his  birth,  and  he  was 
closely  related  to  several  of  the  reigning  houses  of 
Europe.  His  father  had  been  one  of  the  minor  sover- 
eigns dethroned  in  the  revolutions  of  the  nineteenth 
century;  late  in  life,  a  widower,  the  ex-king  had  mar- 
ried a  beautiful  young  girl  of  no  great  family,  who  had 
died  in  giving  birth  to  Guido.  The  marriage  had  of 
course  been  morganatic,  though  perfectly  legal,  and 
Guido  neither  bore  the  name  of  his  father's  royal  race, 
nor  could  he  ever  lay  claim  to  the  succession,  in  the 
utterly  improbable  event  of  a  restoration.  But  he  was- 
half  brother  to  the  childless  man,  nearly  forty  years 
older  than  himself,  whose  faithful  friends  still  called 
him  "your  Majesty"  in  private;  he  was  nephew  to  the 
extremely  authentic  Princess  Anatolie,  and  he  was  first 
cousin  to  at  least  one  king  who  had  held  his  own.  In 
the  eyes  of  an  heiress  in  search  of  social  position  as  an 
equivalent  for  her  millions,  all  this  would  more  than 
compensate  for  the  fact  that  his  visiting  card  bore  the 
somewhat  romantic  and  unlikely  name,  "  Guido  d'Este," 
without  any  title  or  explanation  whatever. 

But  apart  from  the  sordid  consideration  of  values  to 
be  given  and  received,  Guido  was  young,  good-looking 
if  not  handsome,  and  rather  better  gifted  than  most 
men ;  he  had  reached  the  age  of  twenty-seven  without 


A   STORY    OF   MODERN   ROME  .     11 

having  what  society  is  pleased  to  call  a  past  —  in  other 
words  without  ever  having  been  the  chief  actor  in  a 
social  tragedy,  comedy,  or  farce ;  and  finally,  though  he 
had  once  been  fond  of  cards,  he  had  now  entirely  given 
up  play.  If  he  had  been  a  little  richer,  he  could  almost 
have  passed  for  a  model  young  man  in  the  eyes  of  the 
exacting  and  prudent  parent  of  marriageable  daughters. 
Judging  from  the  Princess  Anatolie,  it  was  probable 
that  he  resembled  his  mother's  family  more  than  his 
father's. 

For  all  these  reasons  his  friend  thought  that,  if  he 
chose,  he  might  easily  find  an  heiress  who  would  marry 
him  with  enthusiasm;  but,  being  his  friend,  Lamberti 
was  very  glad  that  he  rejected  the  idea. 

The  two  were  not  men  who  ever  talked  together  of 
their  principles,  though  they  sometimes  spoke  of  their 
beliefs  and  differed  about  them.  Belief  is  usually 
absolute,  but  principle  is  always  a  matter  of  conscience, 
and  the  conscience  is  a  part  of  the  mixed  self  in  which 
soul  and  mind  and  matter  are  all  involved  together. 
Men  born  in  the  same  surroundings  and  brought  up  in 
the  same  way  generally  hold  to  the  same  principles  as 
guides  in  life,  and  show  the  same  abhorrence  for  the 
sins  that  are  accounted  dishonourable,  and  the  same 
indulgence  for  those  not  condemned  by  the  code  of 
honour,  not  even  admitting  discussion  upon  such  points. 
But  the  same  men  may  have  very  different  opinions 
about  spiritual  matters. 

Eliminating  the  vulgar  average  of  society,  there  re- 
main always  a  certain  number  who,  while  possibly  hold- 


12  CECILIA 

ing  even  more  divergent  beliefs  than  most  people,  agree 
more  precisely,  or  disagree  more  essentially,  about  mat- 
ters of  conscience,  either  stretching  or  contracting  the 
code  of  honour  according  to  their  own  temper,  and 
especially  according  to  the  traditions  of  their  own  most 
immediate  surroundings.  Other  conditions  being  fa- 
vourable, it  seems  as  if  men  whose  consciences  are  most 
alike  should  be  the  best  fitted  for  each  other's  friend- 
ship, no  matter  what  they  may  think  or  believe  about 
religion. 

This  was  certainly  the  case  with  Guido  d'Este  and 
Lamberto  Lamberti,  and  they  simultaneously  dismissed, 
as  detestable,  dishonourable,  and  unworthy,  the  mere 
thought  that  Guido  should  try  to  marry  an  heiress,  with 
a  view  to  satisfying  the  outrageous  claims  of  his  ex- 
royal  aunt,  the  Princess  Anatolic. 

"In  simpler  times,"  observed  Lamberti,  who  liked  to 
recall  the  middle  ages,  "  we  should  have  poisoned  the 
old  woman." 

Guido  did  not  smile. 

"Without  meaning  to  do  her  an  injustice,"  he  an- 
swered, "  I  think  it  much  more  probable  that  she  would 
have  poisoned  me." 

"  With  the  help  of  Monsieur  Leroy,  she  might  have 
succeeded." 

At  the  thought  of  the  man  whom  he  so  cordially  de- 
tested, Lamberti's  blue  eyes  grew  hard,  and  his  upper 
lip  tightened  a  little,  just  showing  his  teeth  under  his 
red  moustache.  Guido  looked  at  him  and  smiled  in  his 
turno 


A   STORY   OF  MODERN   ROME  13 

"There  are  your  ferocious  instincts  again,"  he  said; 
"you  wish  you  could  kill  him." 

"I  do,"  answered  Lamberti,  simply. 

He  rose  from  his  seat  and  stretched  himself  a  little, 
as  some  big  dogs  always  do  after  the  preliminary  growl 
at  an  approaching  enemy. 

"  I  think  Monsieur  Leroy  is  the  most  repulsive  human 
being  I  ever  saw,"  he  said.  "  I  am  not  exactly  a  sensi- 
tive person,  but  it  makes  me  very  uncomfortable  to  be 
near  him.  He  once  gave  me  his  hand,  and  I  had  to 
take  it.  It  felt  like  a  live  toad.  How  old  is  that 
man?" 

"He  must  be  forty, "said  Guido,  "but  he  is  wonder- 
fully well  preserved.  Any  one  would  take  him  for  five- 
and-thirty." 

"  It  is  disgusting !  "  Lamberti  kicked  a  pebble  away, 
as  he  stood. 

"  He  looked  just  as  he  does  now,  when  I  was  seven- 
teen," observed  Guido. 

"The  creature  paints  his  face.    I  am  sure  of  it." 

"  No.  I  have  seen  him  drenched  in  a  shower,  when 
he  had  no  umbrella.  The  rain  ran  down  his  cheeks, 
but  the  colour  did  not  change." 

"It  is  all  the  more  disgusting,"  retorted  Lamberti, 
illogically,  but  with  strong  emphasis. 

Guido  rose  from  his  seat  rather  wearily.  As  he  stood 
up,  he  was  much  taller  than  his  friend,  who  had  seemed 
the  larger  man  while  both  were  seated. 

"I  am  glad  that  we  have  talked  this  over,"  he  said. 
"Not  that  talking  can  help  matters,  of  course.    It  never 


14  CECILIA 

does.  But  I  wanted  you  to  know  just  how  things  stand, 
in  case  anything  should  happen  to  me." 

Lamberti  turned  rather  sharply. 

"  In  case  what  should  happen  to  you  ?  "  he  asked,  his 
eyes  hardening. 

"I  am  very  tired  of  it  all,"  Guido  answered,  "I  have 
nothing  to  live  for,  and  I  am  being  driven  straight  to 
disgrace  and  ruin  without  any  fault  of  my  own.  I  dare- 
say that  some  day  I  may — well,  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"What?" 

"  I  should  not  care  to  exile  myself  to  South  America. 
I  am  not  fit  for  that  sort  of  life." 

"Well?" 

"There  is  the  other  alternative,"  said  Guido,  with  a 
tuneless  little  laugh.  "  When  life  is  intolerable,  what 
can  be  simpler  than  to  part  with  it  ?  " 

Lamberti's  strong  hand  was  already  on  his  friend's 
arm,  and  tightened  energetically. 

"  Do  you  believe  in  God  ?  "  he  asked  abruptly. 

"No.     At  least,  I  think  not." 

"I  do,"  said  Lamberti,  with  conviction,  "and  I  shall 
not  let  you  make  away  with  yourself  if  I  can  help  it." 

He  loosed  his  hold,  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets, 
and  looked  as  if  he  wished  he  could  fight  somebody  or 
something. 

"A  man  who  kills  himself  to  escape  his  troubles  is  a 
coward,"  he  said. 

Guido  made  a  gesture  of  indifference. 

"You  know  very  well  that  I  am  not  a  coward,"  he 
said. 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  16 

"  You  will  be,  the  day  you  are  afraid  to  go  on  living," 
returned  his  friend.  "  If  you  kill  yourself,  I  shall  think 
you  are  an  arrant  coward,  and  I  shall  be  sorry  I  ever 
knew  you." 

Guido  looked  at  him  incredulously. 

"Are  you  in  earnest?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  look  in  Lamberti's  hard 
blue  eyes.     Guido  faced  him. 

"  Do  you  think  that  every  man  who  commits  suicide 
is  a  coward?" 

"If  it  is  to  escape  his  own  troubles,  yes.  A  man 
who  gives  his  life  for  his  country,  his  mother,  or  his 
wife,  is  not  a  coward,  though  he  may  kill  himself  with 
his  own  hand." 

"The  Church  would  call  him  a  suicide." 

"I  do  not  know,  in  all  cases,"  said  Lamberti.  "I 
am  not  a  theologian,  and  as  the  Church  means  nothing 
to  you,  it  would  be  of  no  use  if  I  were." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  the  Church  means  nothing  to 
me?"  Guido  asked. 

"  Since  you  are  an  atheist,  what  meaning  can  it  pos- 
sibly have?" 

"  It  means  the  whole  tradition  of  morality  by  which 
we  live,  and  our  fathers  lived.  Even  the  code  of 
honour,  which  is  a  little  out  of  shape  nowadays,  is 
based  on  Christianity,  and  was  once  the  rule  of  a  good 
life,  the  best  rule  in  the  days  when  it  grew  up." 

"I  daresay.  Even  the  code  of  honour,  degenerate 
as  it  is,  and  twist  it  how  you  will,  cannot  give  you  an 


16  CECILIA 

excuse  for  killing  yourself  when  you  have  always  be- 
haved honourably,  or  for  running  away  from  the  enemy 
simply  because  you  are  tired  of  fighting  and  will  not 
take  the  trouble  to  go  on." 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  Guido  answered.  "But 
the  whole  question  is  not  worth  arguing.  What  is  life, 
after  all,  that  we  should  attach  any  importance  to  it  ?  " 

"It  is  all  you  have,  and  you  only  have  it  once." 

"Who  knows?  Perhaps  we  may  come  back  to  it 
again,  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  times.  There  are 
more  people  in  the  world  who  believe  that  than  there 
are  Christians." 

"If  that  is  what  you  believe,"  retorted  Lamberti, 
"  you  must  believe  that  the  sooner  you  leave  life,  the 
sooner  you  will  come  back  to  it." 

"Possibly.  But  there  is  a  chance  that  it  may  not 
be  true,  and  that  everything  may  end  here.  That  one 
chance  may  be  worth  taking." 

"  There  is  a  chance  that  a  man  who  deserts  from  his 
ship  may  not  be  caught.  That  is  not  an  argument  in 
favour  of  desertion." 

Guido  laughed  carelessly. 

"You  have  a  most  unpleasant  way  of  naming  things," 
he  said.  "  Shall  we  go  ?  It  is  growing  late,  and  I  have 
promised  to  see  my  aunt  before  dinner." 

"  Will  there  be  any  one  else  there? "  asked  Lamberti. 

"  Why  ?     Did  you  think  of  going  with  me  ?  " 

"I  might.  It  is  a  long  time  since  I  have  called.  I 
think  I  shall  be  a  little  more  assiduous  in  future." 

"It   is   not  gay,    at  my  aunt's,"  observed   Guido. 


A  STORY   OF  MODERN   ROME  17 

"Monsieur  Leroy  will  be  there.  You  may  have  to 
shake  hands  with  him !  " 

"You  do  not  seem  anxious  that  I  should  go  with 
you,"  laughed  Lamberti. 

Guido  said  nothing  for  a  moment,  and  seemed  to  be 
weighing  the  question,  as  if  it  might  be  of  some  im- 
portance. Lamberti  afterwards  remembered  the  slight 
hesitation. 

"By  all  means  come,"  Guido  said,  when  he  had  made 
up  his  mind. 

He  glanced  once  more  at  the  place,  for  he  liked  it, 
and  it  was  pleasant  to  carry  away  pictures  of  what  one 
liked,  even  of  a  bit  of  neglected  old  garden  with  a 
stone-pine  in  the  middle,  clearly  cut  out  against  the 
sky.  He  wondered  idly  whether  he  should  ever  come 
again  —  whether,  after  all,  it  would  be  cowardly  to  go 
to  sleep  with  the  certainty  of  not  waking,  and  whether 
he  should  find  anything  beyond,  or  not. 

The  world  looked  too  familiar  to  him  to  be  interest- 
ing, as  if  he  had  known  it  too  long,  and  he  vaguely 
wished  that  he  could  change  it,  and  desire  to  stay  in 
it  for  its  own  sake ;  and  just  then  it  occurred  to  him 
that  every  man  carries  with  him  the  world  in  which  he 
must  live,  the  stage  and  the  scenery  for  his  own  play. 
It  would  be  absurd  to  pretend,  he  thought,  that  his 
own  material  world  was  the  same  as  Lamberti's,  even 
when  the  latter  was  at  home.  They  knew  the  same 
people,  heard  the  same  talk,  ate  the  same  things,  looked 
on  the  same  sights,  breathed  the  same  air.  There  was 
perhaps  no  sacrifice  worthy  of  honourable  men  which 


18  OHCILIA 

either  of  them  would  not  make  for  the  other.  Yet,  to 
Guido  d'Este,  life  seemed  miserably  indifferent  where 
it  did  not  seem  a  real  calamity,  while  to  Lamberti  every 
second  of  it  was  worth  fighting  for,  because  it  was 
worth  enjoying. 

Guido  looked  at  his  friend's  tanned  neck  and  sturdy 
shoulders,  following  him. to  the  door,  and  he  realised 
more  clearly  than  ever  before  that  he  was  not  of  the 
same  race.  He  felt  the  satiety  bred  in  many  genera- 
tions of  destiny's  spoilt  and  flattered  sons;  the  absence 
of  anything  like  a  grasping  will,  caused  by  the  too  easy 
fulfilment  of  every  careless  wish;  the  over-critical  sense 
that  guesses  at  hidden  imperfection,  the  cruelly  unerr- 
ing instinct  of  a  taste  too  tired  to  enjoy  and  yet  too 
fine  to  be  deceived. 

Lamberti  turned  at  the  door  and  saw  his  face. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about?" 

"I  was  envying  you,"  Guido  murmured.  "You  are 
glad  to  be  alive." 

Lamberti  made  rather  an  impatient  gesture,  but  said 
nothing.  The  Sister  who  had  admitted  the  two  opened 
the  little  iron  door  for  them  to  go  out.  She  was  a  small 
woman,  with  a  worn  face  and  kind  brown  eyes,  one  of 
the  half-dozen  who  live  in  the  little  convent  and  work 
among  the  children  of  the  very  poor  in  that  quarter. 
Both  men  had  taken  out  money. 

"For  the  poor  children,  if  you  please,"  said  Guido, 
placing  his  offering  in  the  nun's  hand. 

"And  tell  them  to  pray  for  a  man  who  is  in  trouble," 
added  Lamberti,  giving  her  money. 


A  STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  19 

She  looked  at  him  curiously,  thinking,  perhaps,  that 
he  meant  himseK.     Then  she  gravely  bent  her  head. 

"I  thank  you  very  much,"  she  said. 

The  small  iron  door  closed  with  a  rusty  clang, 
and  the  friends  began  to  descend  the  steep  way  that 
leads  down  from  the  Porta  San  Pancrazio  to  the  Via 
Garibaldi. 

"  Why  did  you  say  that  to  the  nun  ?  "  asked  Guido. 

"  Are  you  past  praying  for  ?  "  enquired  Lamberti, 
with  a  careless  and  good-natured  laugh. 

"It  is  not  like  you,"  said  Guido. 

"  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  more  consistent  than  other 
people,  you  know.  Are  you  going  directly  to  the 
Princess's  ?  " 

"No.  I  must  go  home  first.  The  old  lady  would 
never  forgive  me  if  I  went  to  see  her  without  a  silk 
hat  in  my  hand." 

"Then  I  suppose  I  must  dress,  too,"  said  Lamberti. 
"I  will  leave  you  at  your  door,  and  drive  home,  and 
we  can  meet  at  your  aunt's." 

"Very  well." 

They  walked  down  the  street  and  found  a  cab,  scarcely 
speaking  again  until  they  parted  at  Guido's  door. 

He  lived  alone  in  a  quiet  apartment  of  the  Palazzo 
Farnese,  overlooking  the  Via  Giulia  and  the  river 
beyond.  The  afternoon  sun  was  still  streaming  through 
the  open  windows  of  his  sitting  room,  and  the  warm 
breeze  came  with  it. 

"There  are  two  notes,  sir,"  said  his  servant,  who 
had  followed  himc      "The  one  from  the  Princess  is 


20  CECILIA 

urgent.  The  man  wished  to  wait  for  you,  but  I  sent 
him  away. " 

"That  was  right,"  said  Guido,  taking  the  letters 
from  the  salver.  "  Get  my  things  ready.  I  have  visits 
to  make." 

The  man  went  out  and  shut  the  door.  He  was  a 
Venetian,  and  had  been  in  the  navy,  where  he  had 
served  Lamberti  during  the  affair  in  China.  Lamberti 
had  recommended  him  to  his  friend. 

Guido  remained  standing  while  he  opened  the  note. 
The  first  was  an  engraved  invitation  to  a  garden  party 
from  a  lady  he  scarcely  knew.  It  was  the  first  he  had 
ever  received  from  her,  and  he  was  not  aware  that  she 
ever  asked  people  to  her  house.  The  second  was  from 
his  aunt,  begging  him  to  come  to  tea  that  afternoon  as 
he  had  promised,  for  a  very  particular  reason,  and  ask- 
ing him  to  let  her  know  beforehand  if  anything  made  it 
impossible.  It  began  with  "  Dearest  Guido  "  and  was 
signed  "Your  devoted  aunt,  Anatolie."  She  was  evi- 
dently very  anxious  that  he  should  come,  for  he  was 
generally  her  "dear  nephew,"  and  she  was  his  "affec- 
tionate aunt." 

The  handwriting  was  fine  and  hard  to  read,  though 
it  was  regular.  Some  of  the  letters  were  quite  unlike 
those  of  most  people,  and  many  of  them  were  what 
experts  call  "blind." 

Guido  d'Este  read  the  note  through  twice,  with  an 
expression  of  dislike,  and  then  tore  it  up.  He  threw 
the  invitation  upon  some  others  that  lay  in  a  chiselled 
copper  dish  on  his  writing  table,  lit  a  cigarette,  and 


A   STORY  OF   MODERN   ROME  21 

looked  out  of  the  window.  His  aunt's  note  was  too 
affectionate  and  too  anxious  to  bode  well,  and  he  was 
tempted  to  write  that  he  could  not  go.  It  would  be 
pleasant  to  end  the  afternoon  with  a  book  and  a  cup  of 
tea,  and  then  to  dine  alone  and  dream  away  the  evening 
in  soothing  silence. 

But  he  had  promised  to  go ;  and,  moreover,  nothing 
was  of  any  real  importance  at  all,  nothing  whatsoever, 
from  the  moment  of  beginning  life  to  the  instant  of 
leaving  it.     He  therefore  dressed  and  went  out  again. 


CHAPTER  II 

Lamberto  Lamberti  never  wasted  time,  whether 
he  was  at  sea,  doing  his  daily  duty  as  an  officer,  or 
ashore  in  Africa,  fighting  savages,  or  on  leave,  amus- 
ing himself  in  Rome,  or  Paris,  or  London.  Time  was 
life,  and  life  was  far  too  good  to  be  squandered  in 
dawdling.  In  ten  minutes  after  he  had  reached  his 
room  he  was  ready  to  go  out  again.  As  he  took  his 
hat  and  gloves,  his  eye  fell  on  a  note  which  he  had  not 
seen  when  he  had  come  in. 

He  opened  it  carelessly  and  found  the  same  formal 
invitation  which  Guido  had  received  at  the  same  time. 
The  Countess  Fortiguerra  requested  the  pleasure  of  his 
company  at  the  Villa  Palladio  between  four  and  six, 
and  the  date  was  just  a  fortnight  ahead. 

Lamberti  was  a  Roman,  and  though  he  had  only  seen 
the  Countess  three  or  four  times  in  his  life,  he  remem- 
bered very  well  that  she  had  been  twice  married,  and 
that  her  first  husband  had  been  a  certain  Count  Pal- 
ladio, whose  name  was  vaguely  connected  in  Lamberti's 
mind  with  South  American  railways,  the  Suez  Canal, 
and  a  machine  gun  that  had  been  tried  in  the  Italian 
navy;  but  it  was  not  a  Roman  name,  and  he  could  not 
remember  any  villa  that  was  called  by  it.  Palladio  — 
it  recalled  something  else,  besides  a  great  architect  — 

22 


A   STORY   OF  MODERN   ROME  23 

something  connected  with  Pallas  —  but  Lamberti  was 
no  great  scholar.  Guido  would  know.  Guido  knew 
everything  about  literature,  ancient  and  modern  —  or 
at  least  Lamberti  thought  so. 

He  had  kept  his  cab  while  he  dressed,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  the  little  horse  had  toiled  up  the  long  hill  that 
leads  to  Porta  Pinciana,  and  Lamberti  got  out  at  the 
gate  of  one  of  those  beautiful  villas  of  which  there  are 
still  a  few  within  the  walls  of  Rome.  It  belonged  to 
a  foreigner  of  infinite  taste,  whose  love  of  roses  was 
proverbial.  A  legend  says  that  some  of  them  were 
watered  with  the  most  carefully  prepared  beef  tea  from 
the  princely  kitchen.  The  rich  man  had  gone  back  to 
his  own  country,  and  the  Princess  Anatolic  had  taken 
the  villa  and  meant  to  spend  the  rest  of  her  life  there. 
She  was  only  seventy  years  old,  and  had  made  up 
her  mind  to  live  to  be  a  hundred,  so  that  it  was 
worth  while  to  make  permanent  arrangements  for  her 
comfort. 

Lamberti  might  have  driven  through  the  gate  and  up 
to  the  house,  but  he  was  not  sure  whether  the  Princess 
liked  to  see  such  plebeian  vehicles  as  cabs  in  her 
grounds.  He  had  a  strong  suspicion  that,  in  spite  of 
her  royal  blood,  she  had  the  soul  of  a  snob,  and  thought 
much  more  about  appearances  than  he  did;  and  as  for 
Monsieur  Leroy,  he  was  one  of  the  most  complete 
specimens  of  the  snob  species  in  the  world.  Therefore 
Lamberti,  who  now  had  reasons  for  wishing  to  propiti- 
ate the  dwellers  in  the  villa,  left  his  cab  outside  and 
walked  up  the  steep  drive  to  the  house. 


24  CECILIA 

He  did  not  look  particularly  well  in  a  frock  coat  and 
high  hat.  He  was  too  muscular,  his  hair  was  too  red, 
his  neck  was  too  sunburnt,  and  he  was  more  accustomed 
to  wearing  a  uniform  or  the  rough  clothes  in  which 
fighting  is  usually  done.  The  footman  looked  at  him 
and  did  not  recognise  him. 

"Her  Highness  is  not  at  home,"  said  the  man,  coolly. 

A  private  carriage  was  waiting  at  a  little  distance 
from  the  porch,  and  the  footman  who  belonged  to  it  was 
lounging  in  the  vestibule  within. 

"Be  good  enough  to  ask  whether  her  Highness  will 
see  me,"  said  Lamberti. 

The  fellow  looked  at  him  again,  and  evidently  made 
up  his  mind  that  it  would  be  safer  to  obey  a  red-haired 
gentleman  who  had  such  a  very  unusual  look  in  his 
eyes  and  spoke  so  quietly,  for  he  disappeared  without 
making  any  further  objection. 

When  Lamberti  entered  the  drawing-room,  he  was 
aware  that  the  Princess  was  established  in  a  high  arm- 
chair near  a  tea-table,  that  Monsieur  Leroy  was  coming 
towards  him,  and  that  an  elderly  lady  in  a  hat  was 
seated  near  the  Princess  in  an  attitude  which  may  be 
described  as  one  of  respectful  importance.  He  was 
aware  of  the  presence  of  these  three  persons  in  the  room, 
but  he  only  saw  the  fourth,  a  young  girl,  standing  be- 
side the  table  with  a  cup  in  her  hand,  and  just  turning 
her  face  towards  him  with  a  look  that  was  like  a  sur- 
prised recognition  after  not  having  seen  him  for  a  very 
long  time.  He  started  perceptibly  as  his  eyes  met  hers, 
and  he  almost  uttered  an  exclamation  of  astonishment. 


A  STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  25 

He  was  checked  by  feeling  Monsieur  Leroy's  toad- 
like hand  in  his. 

"Her  Highness  is  very  glad  to  see  you,"  said  an  oily 
voice  in  French,  but  with  a  thick  and  rolling  pronuncia- 
tion that  was  South  American  unless  it  was  Roumanian. 

For  once  Lamberti  did  not  notice  the  sensual,  pink 
and  white  face,  the  hanging  lips,  the  colourless  brown 
hair,  the  insolent  eyes,  the  effeminate  figure  and  dress 
of  the  little  man  he  detested,  and  whose  mere  touch  was 
disgusting  to  him.  By  a  strong  effort  he  went  directly 
up  to  the  Princess  without  looking  again  at  the  young 
girl  whose  presence  had  affected  him  so  oddly. 

Princess  Anatolic  was  gracious  enough  to  give  him 
her  hand  to  kiss ;  he  bent  over  it,  and  his  lips  touched 
a  few  of  the  cold  precious  stones  in  the  rings  that  loaded 
her  fingers.  She  had  not  changed  in  the  year  that  had 
passed  since  he  had  seen  her,  except  that  her  eyes 
looked  smaller  than  ever  and  nearer  together.  Her 
hair  might  or  might  not  be  her  own,  for  it  was  carefully 
crimped  and  arranged  upon  her  forehead;  it  was  not 
certain  that  her  excellent  teeth  were  false;  there  was 
about  her  an  air  of  youth  and  vitality  that  was  really 
surprising,  and  yet  it  was  impossible  not  to  feel  that 
she  might  be  altogether  a  marvellous  sham,  on  the 
verge   of  dissolution. 

"This  is  most  charming!"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that 
was  not  cracked,  but  rang  false.  "  I  expect  my  nephew, 
Guido,  at  any  moment.  He  is  your  great  friend,  is 
he  not?  Yes,  I  never  forget  anything.  This  is  my 
nephew  Guido's  great  friend,"  she  continued  volubly, 


26  CSCILIA 

and  turning  to  the  elderly  lady  on  her  right,  "  Prince 
Lamberti." 

"Don  Lamberto  Lamberti,"  said  Monsieur  Leroy  in 
a  low  voice,  correcting  her.  But  even  this  was  not 
quite  right. 

"I  have  the  good  fortune  to  know  the  Countess 
Fortiguerra,"  said  Lamberti,  bowing,  as  he  suddenly 
recognised  her,  but  very  much  surprised  that  she 
should  be  there.  "I  have  just  received  a  very  kind 
invitation  from  you,"  he  added,  as  she  gave  him  her 
hand. 

"I  hope  you  will  come,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  knew 
your  mother  very  well.  We  were  at  the  school  of  the 
Sacred  Heart  together." 

Lamberti  bent  his  head  a  little,  in  acknowledgment 
of  the  claim  upon  him  possessed  by  one  of  his  mother's 
school  friends. 

"I  shall  do  my  best  to  come,"  he  answered. 

He  felt  that  the  young  girl  was  watching  him,  and 
he  ventured  to  look  at  her,  with  a  little  movement,  as 
if  he  wished  to  be  introduced.  Again  he  felt  the  abso- 
lute certainty  of  having  met  her  before,  somewhere, 
very  long  ago  —  so  long  ago  that  she  could  not  have 
been  born  then,  and  he  must  have  been  a  small  boy. 
Therefore  what  he  felt  was  absurd. 

"Cecilia,"  said  the  Countess,  speaking  to  the  girl, 
"this  is  Signer  Lamberto  Lamberti."  "My  daughter," 
she  explained,  as  he  bowed,  "Cecilia  Palladio." 

"Most  charming! "  cried  the  Princess,  "the  son  and 
the  daughter  of  two  old  friends." 


A   STORY    OF   MODERN   ROME  27 

"Touching,"  echoed  Monsieur  Leroy.  "Such  a  pic- 
ture!    There  is  true  sentiment  in  it." 

Lamberti  did  not  hear,  but  Cecilia  Palladio  did,  and 
a  straight  shadow,  fine  as  a  hair  line,  appeared  for  an 
instant,  perpendicular  between  her  brows,  while  she 
looked  directly  at  the  man  before  her.  A  moment  later 
Lamberti  was  seated  between  her  and  her  mother,  and 
Monsieur  Leroy  had  resumed  the  position  he  had  left 
to  welcome  the  newcomer,  sitting  on  a  very  low  cush- 
ioned stool  almost  at  the  Princess's  feet. 

In  formal  circumstances,  a  man  who  has  been  long 
in  the  army  or  navy  can  usually  trust  himself  not  to 
show  astonishment  or  emotion,  and  after  the  first  slight 
start  of  surprise,  which  only  Monsieur  Leroy  had  seen, 
Lamberti  had  behaved  as  if  nothing  out  of  the  common 
way  had  happened  to  him.  But  he  had  felt  as  if  he 
were  in  a  dream,  while  healthily  sure  that  he  was 
awake ;  and  now  that  he  was  more  at  ease,  he  began  to 
examine  the  cause  of  his  inward  disturbance. 

It  was  not  only  out  of  the  question  to  suppose  that 
he  had  ever  before  now  met  Cecilia  Palladio,  but  he 
was  quite  certain  that  he  had  never  seen  any  one  who 
was  at  all  like  her. 

If  extinct  types  of  men  could  be  revived  now  and 
then,  of  those  which  the  world  once  thought  admirable 
and  tried  to  copy,  it  would  be  interesting  to  see  how 
many  persons  of  taste  would  acknowledge  any  beauty 
in  them.  Cecilia  Palladio  had  been  eighteen  years  old 
early  in  the  winter,  and  in  the  usual  course  of  things 
would  have  made  her  appearance  in  society  during  the 


28  CECILIA 

carnival  season.  The  garden  party  for  which  her 
mother  had  now  sent  out  invitations  was  to  take  the 
place  of  the  dance  which  should  have  been  given  in 
January.  Afterwards,  when  it  was  over,  and  every- 
body had  seen  her,  some  people  said  that  she  was  per- 
fectly beautiful,  others  declared  that  she  was  a  freak  of 
nature  and  would  soon  be  hideous,  but,  meanwhile, 
was  an  interesting  study;  one  young  gentleman,  ad- 
dicted to  art,  said  that  her  face  belonged  to  the  type 
seen  in  the  Elgin  marbles ;  a  Sicilian  lady  said  that  her 
head  was  even  more  archaic  than  that,  and  resembled  a 
fragment  from  the  temples  of  Selinunte,  preserved  in 
the  museum  at  Palermo;  and  the  Russian  ambassador, 
who  was  of  unknown  age,  said  that  she  was  the  perfect 
Psyche  of  Naples,  brought  to  life,  and  that  he  wished 
he  were  Eros. 

In  southern  Europe  what  is  called  the  Greek  type  of 
beauty  is  often  seen,  and  does  not  surprise  any  one. 
Many  people  think  it  cold  and  uninteresting.  It  was 
a  small  something  in  the  arch  of  the  brows,  it  was  a 
very  slight  upward  turn  of  the  point  of  the  nose,  it  was 
the  small  irregularity  of  the  biroader  and  less  curving 
upper  lip  that  gave  to  Cecilia  Palladio's  face  the  force 
and  character  that  are  so  utterly  wanting  in  the  faces 
of  the  best  Greek  statues.  The  Greeks,  by  the  time 
they  had  gained  the  perfect  knowledge  of  the  human 
body  that  produced  the  Hermes  of  Olympia,  had  made 
a  conventional  mask  of  the  human  face,  and  rarely  ever 
tried  to  give  it  a  little  of  the  daring  originality  that 
stands  out  in  the  features  of  many  a  crudely  archaic 


A   STORY   OF  MODERN   ROME  29 

statue.  The  artist  who  made  the  Psyche  attempted 
something  of  the  kind,  for  the  right  side  of  the  face 
differs  from  the  left,  as  it  generally  does  in  living 
people.  The  right  eyebrow  is  higher  and  more  curved 
than  the  left  one,  which  lends  some  archness  to  the 
expression,  but  its  effect  is  destroyed  by  the  tiresome 
perfection  of  the  simpering  mouth. 

Cecilia  Palladio  was  not  like  a  Greek  statue,  but  she 
looked  as  if  she  had  come  alive  from  an  age  in  which 
the  individual  ranked  above  the  many  as  a  model,  and 
in  which  nothing  accidentally  unfit  for  life  could  sur- 
vive and  nothing  degenerate  had  begun  to  be.  With 
the  same  general  proportion,  there  was  less  symmetry 
in  her  face  than  in  those  of  modern  beauties,  and  there 
was  more  light,  more  feeling,  more  understanding. 
She  was  very  fair,  but  her  eyes  were  not  blue ;  it  would 
have  been  hard  to  define  their  colour,  and  sometimes 
there  seemed  to  be  golden  lights  in  them.  While  she 
was  standing,  Lamberti  had  seen  that  she  was  almost 
as  tall  as  himself,  and  therefore  taller  than  most  women ; 
and  she  was  slender,  and  moved  like  a  very  perfectly 
proportioned  young  wild  animal,  continuously,  but 
without  haste,  till  each  motion  was  completed  in  rest. 
Most  men  and  women  really  move  in  a  succession  of 
very  short  movements,  entirely  interrupted  at  more  or 
less  perceptible  intervals.  If  our  sight  were  perfect 
we  should  see  that  people  walk,  for  instance,  by  a  series 
of  jerks  so  rapid  as  to  be  like  the  vibrations  of  a  hum- 
ming-bird's wings.  Perhaps  this  is  due  to  the  uncon- 
scious exercise  of  the  human  will  in  every  voluntary 


30  CECILIA 

motion,  for  a  man  who  moves  in  his  sleep  seems  to  move 
continuously  like  an  animal,  till  he  has  changed  his 
position  and  rests  again. 

Lamberti  made  none  of  these  reflections,  and  did  not 
analyse  the  face  he  could  not  help  watching  whenever 
the  chance  of  conversation  allowed  him  to  look  at  Ce- 
cilia without  seeming  to  stare  at  her.  He  only  tried  to 
discover  why  her  face  was  so  familiar  to  him. 

"We  have  been  in  Paris  all  winter,"  said  her  mother, 
in  answer  to  some  question  of  his. 

"They  have  been  in  Paris  all  winter!"  cried  the 
Princess.  "Think  what  that  means!  The  cold,  the 
rain,  the  solitude!  What  in  the  world  did  you  do 
with  yourselves?" 

"  Cecilia  wished  to  continue  her  studies, "  answered 
the  Countess  Fortiguerra. 

"What  sort  of  things  have  you  been  learning. 
Mademoiselle?"     asked  Lamberti. 

"  I  followed  a  course  of  lectures  on  philosophy  at  the 
Sorbonne,  and  I  read  Nietzsche  with  a  man  who  had 
known  him,"  answered  the  young  lady,  as  naturally 
as  if  she  had  said  that  she  had  been  taking  lessons  on 
the  piano. 

A  momentary  silence  followed,  and  everybody  stared 
at  the  girl,  except  her  mother,  who  smiled  pleasantly 
and  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  the  expression 
which  mothers  of  prodigies  often  assume,  and  which 
clearly  says :  "  I  did  it.    Is  it  not  perfectly  wonderful?  " 

Then  Monsieur  Leroy  laughed,  in  spite  of  himself. 

"Hush,  Doudou!"  cried  the  Princess.  "You  are 
very  rude  1 " 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  31 

No  one  present  chanced  to  know  that  she  always 
called  him  Doudou  when  she  was  in  a  good  humour. 
Cecilia  Palladio  turned  her  head  quietly,  fixed  her  eyes 
on  him  and  laughed,  deliberately,  long,  and  very 
sweetly.  Monsieur  Leroy  met  her  gaze  for  a  moment, 
then  looked  away  and  moved  uneasily  on  his  low  seat. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  he  asked,  in  a  tone 
of  annoyance. 

"  It  seems  so  funny  that  you  should  be  called  Doudou 
—  at  your  age,"  answered  Cecilia. 

"Really  — "  Monsieur  Leroy  looked  at  the  Prin- 
cess as  if  asking  for  protection.  She  laughed  good- 
humouredly,  somewhat  to  Lamberti's  surprise. 

"You  are  very  direct  with  my  friends,  my  dear,"  she 
said  to  Cecilia,  still  smiling.  The  Countess  Forti- 
guerra,  not  knowing  exactly  what  to  do,  also  smiled, 
but  rather  foolishly. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Cecilia,  with  contrition,  and 
looking  down.  "  I  really  beg  Monsieur  Leroy's  pardon. 
I  could  not  help  it." 

But  she  had  been  revenged,  for  she  had  made  him 
ridiculous. 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  he  answered,  in  a  tone  that 
did  not  promise  forgiveness.  Lamberti  wondered  what 
sort  of  man  Palladio  had  been,  since  the  girl  did  not  at 
all  resemble  her  mother,  who  had  clearly  been  pretty 
and  foolish  in  her  youth,  and  had  only  lost  her  looks  as 
she  grew  older.  The  obliteration  of  middle  age  had 
set  in. 

There  might  have  been  some  awkwardness,  but  it 


32  CECILIA 

was  dispelled  by  the  appearance  of  Guido,  who  came 
in  unannounced  at  that  moment,  glancing  quickly  at 
each  of  the  group  as  he  came  forward,  to  see  who  was 
there. 

"At  last!"  exclaimed  the  Princess,  with  evident 
satisfaction.  "How  late  you  are,  my  dear,"  she  said 
as  Guido  ceremoniously  kissed  her  hand. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  he  said.  "I  was  out  when  your 
note  came.     But  I  should  have  come  in  any  case." 

"You  know  the  Countess  Fortiguerra,  of  course," 
said  the  Princess. 

"Certainly,"  answered  Guido,  who  had  not  recog- 
nised the  lady  at  all,  and  was  glad  to  be  told  who  she 
was,  and  that  he  knew  her. 

Lamberti  watched  him  closely,  for  he  understood 
every  shade  of  his  friend's  expression  and  manner. 
Guido  shook  hands  with  a  pleasant  smile,  and  then 
glanced  at  Cecilia. 

"My  nephew,  Guido  d'Este,"  said  the  Princess,  in- 
troducing him. 

Cecilia  looked  at  him  quietly,  and  bent  her  head  in 
acknowledgment  of  the  introduction. 

"My  daughter,"  murmured  the  Countess  Fortiguerra, 
with  satisfaction. 

"Mademoiselle  Palladio  and  her  mother  have  just 
come  back  from  Paris,"  explained  Monsieur  Leroy 
oflSciously,  as  Guido  nodded  to  him. 

Guido  caught  the  name,  and  was  glad  of  the  infor- 
mation it  conveyed,  and  he  sat  down  between  the  young 
girl  and  her  mother.     Lamberti  was  now  almost  sure 


A   STORY    OF   MODERN   ROME  88 

that  his  friend  was  not  especially  struck  by  Cecilia's 
face ;  but  she  looked  at  him  with  some  interest,  which 
was  not  at  all  to  be  wondered  at,  considering  his  looks, 
his  romantic  name,  and  his  half-royal  birth.  For  the 
first  time  Lamberti  envied  him  a  little,  and  was  ashamed 
of  it. 

Barely  an  hour  earlier  he  had  wished  that  he  could 
make  Guido  more  like  himself,  and  now  he  wished  that 
he  were  more  like  Guido. 

"  The  Countess  has  been  kind  enough  to  ask  me  to 
her  garden  party,"  Guido  said,  looking  at  his  aunt,  for 
he  instinctively  connected  the  latter's  anxiety  to  see 
him  with  the  invitation. 

So  did  Lamberti,  and  it  flashed  upon  him  that  this 
meeting  was  the  first  step  in  an  attempt  to  marry  his 
friend  to  Cecilia  Palladio.  The  girl  was  probably  an 
heiress,  and  Guido's  aunt  saw  a  possibility  of  re- 
covering through  her  the  money  she  had  lost  in 
speculations. 

This  explanation  did  not  occur  to  Guido,  simply 
because  he  was  bored  and  was  already  thinking  of  an 
excuse  for  getting  away  after  staying  as  short  a  time 
as  possible. 

"I  hope  you  will  come,"  said  Cecilia,  rather  unex- 
pectedly. 

"Of  course  he  will,"  the  Princess  answered  for  him, 
in  an  encouraging  tone. 

"The  villa  is  really  very  pretty,"  continued  the 
young  girl. 

"Let  me  see,"  said  Guido,  who  liked  her  voice  as 


34  CECILIA 

soon  as  she  spoke,  "  the  Villa  Palladio  —  I  do  not  quite 
remember  where  it  is." 

"It  used  to  be  the  Villa  Madama/'  explained  Mon- 
sieur Leroy.  "I  have  always  wondered  who  the 
*  Madama '  was,  after  whom  it  was  called.  It  seems 
such  a  foolish  name." 

The  Princess  looked  displeased,  and  bit  her  lip  a 
little. 

"I  think,"  said  Guido,  as  if  suggesting  a  possibility, 
rather  than  stating  a  fact,  "that  she  was  a  daughter 
of  the  Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth,  who  was  Duchess 
of  Parma." 

"Of  course,  of  course  I"  cried  Monsieur  Leroy, 
eagerly  assenting,  "I  had  forgotten  I  " 

"  My  daughter's  guardians  bought  it  for  her  not  long 
ago,"  explained  the  Countess  Fortiguerra,  "with  my 
approval,  and  we  have  of  course  changed  the  name." 

"Naturally,"  said  Guido,  gravely,  but  looking  at 
Lamberti,  who  almost  smiled  under  his  red  beard. 
"And  you  approved  of  the  change.  Mademoiselle," 
Guido  added,  turning  to  Cecilia,  and  with  an  inter- 
rogation in  his  voice. 

"Not  at  all,"  she  answered,  with  sudden  coldness. 
"It  was  Goldbirn  — " 

"Yes,"  said  the  Countess,  weakly,  "it  was  Baron 
Goldbirn  who  insisted  upon  it,  in  spite  of  us." 

"Goldbirn  —  Goldbirn,"  repeated  the  Princess 
vaguely.     "The  name  has  a  familiar  sound." 

"  Your  Highness  has  a  current  account  with  them  in 
Vienna,"  observed  Monsieur  Leroy^ 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  86 

"Yes,  yes,  certainly.  Doudou  acts  as  my  secretary 
sometimes,  you  know." 

The  information  seemed  necessary,  as  Monsieur 
Leroy's  position  had  been  far  from  clear. 

"  Baron  Goldbirn  was  associated  with  Cecilia's  father 
in  some  railways  in  South  America,"  said  the  Countess, 
"  and  is  her  principal  guardian.  He  will  always  con- 
tinue to  manage  her  fortune  for  her,  I  hope." 

Clearly,  Cecilia  was  an  heiress,  and  was  to  marry 
Guido  d'Este  as  soon  as  the  matter  could  be  arranged. 
That  was  the  Princess's  plan.  Lamberti  thought  that 
it  remained  to  be  seen  whether  Guido  would  agree  to 
the  match. 

"  Has  Baron  Goldbirn  made  many  — •  improvements 
—  in  the  Villa  Madama?"  enquired  Guido,  hesitating 
a  little,  perhaps  intentionally. 

"  Oh  no !  "  Cecilia  answered.  "  He  lets  me  do  as  I 
please  about  such  things." 

"And  what  has  been  your  pleasure?"  asked  Guido, 
with  a  beginning  of  interest,  as  well  as  for  the  sake  of 
hearing  her  young  voice,  which  contrasted  pleasantly 
with  her  mother's  satisfied  purring  and  the  Princess's 
disagreeable  tone. 

"  I  got  the  best  artist  I  could  find  to  restore  the  whole 
place  as  nearly  as  possible  to  what  it  was  meant  to  be. 
I  am  satisfied  with  the  result.  So  is  my  mother,"  she 
added,  with  an  evident  afterthought. 

"My  daughter  is  very  artistic,"  the  Countess 
explained. 

Cecilia  looked  at  Guido,  and  a  faint  smile  illumi- 


TO  CECILIA 

nated  her  face  for  a  moment.  Guido  bent  his  head 
almost  imperceptibly,  as  if  to  say  that  he  knew  what 
she  meant,  and  it  seemed  to  Lamberti  that  the  two 
already  understood  each  other.  He  rose  to  go,  moved 
by  an  impulse  he  could  not  resist.  Guido  looked  at 
him  in  surprise,  for  he  had  expected  his  friend  to  wait 
for  him. 

"Must  you  go  already?"  asked  the  Princess,  in  a 
colourless  tone  that  did  not  invite  Lamberti  to  stay. 
"But  I  suppose  you  are  very  busy  when  you  are  in 
Rome.     Good-bye." 

As  he  took  his  leave,  his  eyes  met  Cecilia's.  It 
might  have  been  only  his  imagination,  after  all,  but  he 
felt  sure  that  her  whole  expression  changed  instantly 
to  a  look  of  deep  and  sincere  understanding,  even  of 
profound  sympathy. 

"I  hope  you  will  come  to  the  villa,"  she  said  gravely, 
and  she  seemed  to  wait  for  his  answer. 

" Thank  you.     I  shall  be  there." 

There  was  a  short  silence,  as  Monsieur  Leroy  went 
with  him  to  the  door  at  the  other  end  of  the  long  room, 
but  Cecilia  did  not  watch  him ;  she  seemed  to  be  inter- 
ested in  a  large  portrait  that  hung  opposite  the  nearest 
window,  and  which  was  suddenly  lighted  up  by  the 
glow  of  the  sunset.  It  represented  a  young  king,  stand- 
ing on  a  step,  in  coronation  robes,  with  a  vast  ermine 
mantle  spreading  behind  him  and  to  one  side,  and  an 
uncomfortable-looking  crown  on  his  head ;  a  sceptre  lay 
on  a  highly  polished  table  at  his  elbow,  beside  an  open 
arch,  through  which  the  domes  and  spires  of  a  city  were 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  37 

visible.  There  was  no  particular  reason  why  he  should 
be  standing  there,  apparently  alone,  and  in  a  distinctly 
theatrical  attitude,  and  the  portrait  was  not  a  good  pic- 
ture ;  but  Cecilia  looked  at  it  steadily  till  she  heard  the 
door  shut,  after  Lamberti  had  gone  out. 

"Your  friend  is  not  a  very  gay  person, " observed  the 
Princess.      " Is  he  always  so  silent?  " 

"  Yes,"  Guido  answered.    "  He  is  not  very  talkative." 

"Do  you  like  silent  people?  "  enquired  Cecilia. 

"  I  like  a  woman  who  can  talk,  and  a  man  who  can 
hold  his  tongue,"  replied  Guido  readily. 

Cecilia  looked  at  him  and  smiled  carelessly.  The 
Princess  rose  slowly,  but  she  was  so  short,  and  her 
arm-chair  was  so  high,  that  she  seemed  to  walk  away 
from  it  without  being  any  taller  than  when  she  had 
been  sitting,  rather  than  really  to  get  up. 

"  Shall  we  go  into  the  garden  ?  "  she  suggested.  "  It 
is  not  too  cold.     Doudou,  my  cloak!" 

Monsieur  Leroy  brought  a  pretty  confusion  of  mouse- 
coloured  silk  and  lace,  disentangled  it  skilfully,  and 
held  it  up  behind  the  Princess's  shoulders.  It  looked 
like  a  big  butterfly  as  he  spread  it  in  the  air,  and  it  had 
ribands  that  hung  down  to  the  floor. 

When  she  had  put  it  on,  the  Princess  led  the  way  to 
a  long  window,  which  Leroy  opened,  and  leaning  lightly 
on  the  Countess  Fortiguerra's  arm,  she  went  out  into 
the  evening  light.  She  evidently  meant  to  give  the 
young  people  a  chance  of  talking  together  by  them- 
selves, for  as  soon  as  they  were  outside  she  sent  Mon- 
sieur Leroy  away. 


88  CECILIA 

"My  dear  Doudou!"  she  cried,  as  if  suddenly  re- 
membering something,  "  we  have  quite  forgotten  those 
invitations  for  to-morrow  I  Should  you  mind  writing 
them  now,  so  that  they  can  be  sent  before  dinner?  " 

Monsieur  Leroy  disappeared  with  an  alacrity  which 
suggested  that  the  plan  had  been  arranged  beforehand. 

"Take  Mademoiselle  Palladio  round  the  garden, 
Guido,"  said  the  Princess.  "We  will  walk  a  little 
before  the  house  till  you  come  back.     It  is  drier  here." 

Guido  must  have  been  dull  indeed  if  he  had  not  at 
last  understood  why  he  had  been  made  to  come,  and 
what  was  expected  of  him.  He  was  annoyed,  and 
raised  his  eyebrows  a  little. 

"  Will  you  come.  Mademoiselle  ?  "  he  asked  coldly. 

"Yes,"  answered  Cecilia  in  a  constrained  tone,  for 
she  understood  as  well  as  Guido  himself. 

Her  mother  was  often  afraid  of  her,  and  had  not  dared 
to  tell  her  that  the  whole  object  of  their  visit  was  that 
'  she  should  see  Guido  and  be  seen  by  him.  She  thought 
that  the  Princess  was  really  pushing  matters  too  hastily, 
considering  the  time-honoured  traditions  of  Latin  eti- 
quette, which  forbid  that  young  people  should  be  left 
alone  together  for  a  moment,  even  when  engaged  to  be 
married.  But  the  Countess  had  great  faith  in  the  cor- 
rectness of  anything  which  such  a  very  high-born  per- 
son as  the  Princess  Anatolic  chose  to  suggest,  and  as 
the  latter  held  her  by  the  arm  with  affectionate  conde- 
scension, she  could  not  possibly  run  after  her  daughter. 

The  two  moved  away  in  silence  towards  the  flower 
garden,  and  soon  disappeared  round  the  corner  of  the 
house. 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  39 

"The  roses  are  pretty,"  said  Guido,  apologetically. 
"My  aunt  likes  people  to  see  them." 

"They  are  magnificent,"  answered  Cecilia,  without 
enthusiasm,  and  after  a  suitable  interval. 

They  went  on,  along  a  narrow  gravel  path,  and 
though  there  was  really  room  enough  for  Guido  to 
walk  by  her  side,  he  pretended  that  there  was  not, 
and  followed  her.  She  was  very  graceful,  and  he 
would  not  have  thought  of  denying  it.  He  even  looked 
at  her  as  she  went  before  him,  and  he  noticed  the  fact; 
but  after  he  had  taken  cognisance  of  it,  he  was  quite 
as  indifferent  as  before.  He  no  longer  thought  her 
voice  pleasant,  in  his  resentment  at  finding  that  a  trap 
had  been  laid  for  him. 

"You  see,  there  are  a  good  many  kinds  of  roses,"  he 
observed,  because  it  would  have  been  rude  to  say 
nothing  at  all.      "They  are  not  all  in  flower  yet." 

"It  is  only  the  beginning  of  May,"  the  young  girl 
answered,  without  interest. 

They  came  to  the  broader  walk  on  the  other  side  of 
the  plot  of  roses,  and  Guido  had  to  walk  by  her  side 
again. 

"I  like  your  friend,"  she  said  suddenly. 

"I  am  very  glad,"  Guido  replied,  unbending  at  once 
and  quietly  looking  at  her  now.  "People  do  not 
always  like  him  at  first  sight." 

"  No,  I  understand  that.  He  has  the  look  in  his  eyes 
that  men  get  who  have  killed." 

"Has  he?"  Guido  seemed  surprised.  "Yes,  he 
killed  several  men  in  Africa,  when  he  was  alone  against 


40  CECILIA 

many,  and  they  meant  to  murder  him.  He  is  braye. 
Make  him  tell  you  about  it,  if  you  can  induce  him  to 
talk." 

"Is  that  so  very  hard?"  Cecilia  laughed.  "Is  he 
really  more  silent  than  you  ?  " 

"Nobody  ever  called  me  silent,"  answered  Guido, 
smiling.     "I  suppose  you  thought  so  —  "  he  stopped. 

"  Because  I  did  not  know  how  to  begin,  and  because 
you  would  not.     Is  that  what  you  were  going  to  say  ?  " 

"It  is  very  near  the  truth,"  Guido  admitted,  very 
much  amused. 

"I  do  not  blame  you,"  said  Cecilia.  "How  could 
you  suppose  that  a  mere  girl  like  me  could  possibly 
have  anything  to  say  —  a  child  that  has  not  even  been 
to  her  first  party  ?  " 

"Perhaps  I  was  afraid  that  the  mere  child  might 
talk  about  philosophy  and  Nietzsche,"  suggested  Guido. 

"  And  that  would  be  dreadful,  of  course  I  Why  ?  Is 
there  any  reason  why  a  girl  should  not  study  such 
things?  If  there  is,  tell  me.  No  one  ever  tells  me 
what  I  ought  to  do." 

"It  is  quite  unnecessary,  I  have  no  doubt,"  Guido 
answered  promptly,  and  smiling  again. 

"You  mean  quite  useless,  because  I  should  not  do 
it?" 

"  Why  should  I  be  supposed  to  know  that  you  are 
spoiled  —  if  you  are  ?  Besides,  you  must  not  take  up 
a  man  every  time  he  makes  you  a  silly  compliment." 

"  Ah,  now  you  are  telling  me  what  I  ought  to  do  I  I 
like  that  better.     Thank  you  I"     Guido  was  amused. 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  41 

"Are  you  really  grateful?"  he  asked,  laughing  a 
little.     "Do  you  always  speak  the  truth?  " 

"Yes!  Do  you?"  She  asked  the  question  sharply, 
as  if  she  meant  to  surprise  hina. 

"I  never  lied  to  a  man  in  my  life,"  Guide  answered. 

"But  you  have  to  women?  " 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Guido,  considerably  diverted. 
"Most  of  us  do,  in  moments  of  enthusiasm." 

"  Really !     And  —  are  you  often  —  enthusiastic  ?  " 

"No.  Very  rarely.  Besides,  I  do  not  know  whether 
it  is  worse  in  a  man  to  tell  fibs  to  please  a  woman,  than  it 
is  in  a  woman  to  disbelieve  what  an  honest  man  tells  her 
on  his  word.    Which  is  the  least  wrong,  do  you  think?" 

"  But  since  you  admit  that  most  men  do  not  tell  the 
truth  to  women  —  " 

"I  said,  on  one's  word  of  honour.  There  is  a 
difference." 

"In  theory,"  said  Cecilia. 

"Are  there  theories  about   lying?"    asked  Guido. 

"Oh  yes,"  answered  the  young  girl,  without  hesita- 
tion. "  There  is  Puffendorf 's,  for  instance,  in  his  book 
on  the  Law  of  Nature  and  Nations  —  " 

"  Good  heavens !  "  exclaimed  Guido. 

"  Certainly.  He  makes  out  that  there  is  a  sort  of 
unwritten  agreement  amongst  all  men  that  words  shall 
be  used  in  a  definite  sense  which  others  can  under- 
stand. That  sounds  sensible.  And  then.  Saint  Au- 
gustin,  and  La  Placette,  and  Noodt  —  " 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  you  have  led  me  quite  out  of 
my  depth  1     What  do  those  good  people  say  ?  " 


42  CECILIA 

"  That  all  lying  is  absolutely  wrong  in  itself,  whether 
it  harms  anybody  or  not." 

"And  what  do  you  think  about  it?  That  would  be 
much  more  interesting  to  know." 

"  I  told  you,  I  always  tell  the  truth,"  Cecilia  answered 
demurely. 

"Oh  yes,  of  course  I     I  had  forgotten." 

"And  you  do  not  believe  it,"  laughed  the  young 
girl,     "It  is  time  to  go  back  to  the  house." 

"  If  you  will  stay  a  little  longer,  I  will  believe  every- 
thing you  tell  me." 

"No,  it  is  late,"  answered  Cecilia,  her  manner  sud- 
denly changing  as  the  laugh  died  out  of  her  voice. 

She  walked  on  quickly,  and  he  kept  behind  her. 

"I  shall  certainly  go  to  your  garden  party,"  said 
Guido. 

"Shall  you?*' 

She  spoke  in  a  tone  of  such  utter  indifference  that 
Guido  stared  at  her  in  surprise.  A  moment  later  they 
had  rejoined  her  mother  and  the  PrincesSo 


CHAPTER  III 

At  the  beginning  of  the  twentieth  century  Rome  has 
become  even  more  cosmopolitan  than  it  used  to  be,  for 
the  Romans  themselves  are  turning  into  cosmopolitans, 
and  the  old  traditional,  serious,  gloomy,  and  sometimes 
dramatic  life  of  the  patriarchal  system  has  almost  died 
out.  One  meets  Romans  of  historical  names  every- 
where, nowadays,  in  London,  in  Paris,  and  in  Vienna, 
speaking  English  and  French,  and  sometimes  German, 
with  extraordinary  correctness,  as  much  at  home,  to  all 
appearance,  in  other  capitals  as  they  are  in  their  own, 
and  intimately  familiar  with  the  ways  of  many  societies 
in  many  places. 

Cecilia  Palladio,  at  eighteen  years  of  age,  had  prob- 
ably not  spent  a  third  of  her  life  in  Rome,  and  had  been 
educated  in  different  parts  of  the  world  and  in  a  variety 
of  ways.  Her  father,  Count  Palladio,  as  has  been  ex- 
plained, had  been  engaged  in  promoting  a  number  of 
undertakings,  of  which  several  had  succeeded,  and  at 
his  death,  which  had  happened  when  Cecilia  had  been 
eight  years  old,  he  had  left  her  part  of  his  considerable 
fortune  in  safe  guardianship,  leaving  his  wife  a  life 
interest  in  the  remainder.  His  old  ally,  the  banker 
Solomon  Goldbirn  of  Vienna,  had  administered  the 
whole  inheritance  with  wisdom  and  integrity,  and  at 

m 


44  CECILIA 

her  marriage  Cecilia  would  dispose  of  several  millions 
of  francs,  and  would  ultimately  inherit  as  much  more 
from  her  mother's  share.  From  a  European  point  of 
view,  she  was  therefore  a  notable  heiress,  and  even  in 
the  new  world  of  millionnaires  she  would  at  least  have 
been  considered  tolerably  well  off,  though  by  no  means 
what  is  there  called  rich. 

Two  years  after  Palladio's  death  her  mother  had  mar- 
ried Count  Fortiguerra,  who  had  begun  life  in  the  army, 
then  passed  to  diplomacy,  had  risen  rapidly  to  the  post 
of  ambassador,  and  had  died  suddenly  at  Madrid  when 
barely  fifty  years  old,  and  when  Cecilia  was  sixteen. 

The  girl  had  a  clear  recollection  of  her  own  father, 
though  she  had  never  been  with  him  very  much,  as  his 
occupations  constantly  took  him  to  distant  parts  of  the 
world.  He  had  seemed  an  old  man  to  her,  and  had 
indeed  been  much  older  than  her  mother,  for  he  had 
been  a  patriot  in  the  later  days  of  the  Italian  revolu- 
tions, and  when  still  young  he  had  been  with  Garibaldi 
in  1860.  Cecilia  remembered  him  a  tall,  active,  grey- 
haired  man  with  a  pointed  beard  and  big  moustaches, 
and  eyes  which  she  now  knew  had  been  like  her  own. 
She  remembered  his  unbounded  energy,  his  patriotic 
and  sometimes  rather  boastful  talk,  his  black  cigars, 
the  vast  heap  of  papers  that  always  seemed  to  be  in 
hopeless  confusion  on  his  writing  table  when  he  was  at 
home,  and  the  numerous  eccentric-looking  people  who 
used  to  come  and  see  him.  She  had  been  told  that  he 
was  never  to  be  disturbed,  and  never  to  be  questioned, 
and  that  he  was  a  great  mauo    She  had  loved  him  with 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  46 

all  her  heart  when  he  told  her  stories,  and  at  other 
times  she  had  been  distinctly  afraid  of  him.  These 
stories  had  been  fairy  tales  to  the  child,  but  she  had 
now  discovered  that  they  had  been  history,  or  what 
passes  for  it. 

He  had  told  her  about  King  Amulius  of  Alba  Longa, 
and  of  the  twin  founders  of  Rome,  and  of  all  the  far-off 
times  and  doings,  and  he  had  described  to  her  six  won- 
derful maidens  who  lived  in  a  palace  in  the  Forum  and 
kept  a  little  fire  burning  day  and  night,  which  he  com- 
pared to  the  great  Roman  race  over  whose  destiny  the 
mystic  ladies  were  always  watching.  It  was  only  quite 
lately  that  she  had  heard  any  learned  men  say  in  earnest 
some  of  the  things  which  he  had  told  her  with  a  smile 
as  if  he  were  inventing  a  tale  to  amuse  her  child's 
fancy.  But  what  he  had  said  had  made  a  deep  and 
abiding  impression,  and  had  become  a  part  of  her 
thought.  She  sometimes  dreamed  very  vividly  that 
she  was  again  a  little  girl,  sitting  on  his  knee  and  lis- 
tening to  his  wonderful  stories.  In  other  ways  she  had 
not  missed  him  much  after  his  death.  Possibly  her 
mother  had  not  missed  him  either;  for  though  she 
spoke  of  him  occasionally  with  a  sort  of  awe,  it  was 
never  with  anything  like  emotion. 

Count  Fortiguerra  had  been  kind  to  the  child,  or  it 
might  be  truer  to  say  that  he  had  spoilt  her  by  encourag- 
ing her  without  much  judgment  in  her  insatiable  thirst 
for  knowledge,  and  in  her  unnecessary  ambition  to 
excel  in  everything  her  fancy  led  her  to  attempt.  Her 
mother,  with  a  good  deal  of  social  foolishness  and  a 


46  CECILIA 

very  pliable  character,  possessed  nevertheless  a  fair 
share  of  womanly  intelligence,  and  knew  by  instinct 
that  a  young  girl  who  is  very  different  from  other 
girls,  no  matter  how  clever  she  may  be,  rarely  makes 
what  people  call  a  good  marriage. 

There  is  probably  nothing  which  leads  a  young- 
woman  to  think  a  man  a  desirable  husband  so  much  as 
some  exceptional  gift,  or  even  some  brilliant  eccen- 
tricity, which  distinguishes  him  from  other  people; 
but  there  is  nothing  which  frightens  away  the  average 
desirable  husband  so  much  as  anything  of  that  sort 
in  the  young  lady  of  his  affections,  and  every  married 
woman  knows  it  very  well. 

The  excellent  Countess  used  to  wish  that  her  daugh- 
ter would  grow  up  more  like  other  girls,  and  in  the  sin- 
cere belief  that  a  little  womanly  vanity  must  certainly 
counteract  a  desire  for  super-feminine  mental  cultiva- 
tion, she  honestly  tried  to  interest  Cecilia  in  such 
frivolities  as  dress,  dancing,  and  romantic  fiction.  The 
result  was  only  very  partially  successful.  Cecilia  was 
dressed  to  perfection,  without  seeming  to  take  any 
trouble  about  it,  and  she  danced  marvellously  before 
she  had  ever  been  to  a  ball ;  but  she  cared  nothing  for 
the  novels  she  was  allowed  to  read,  and  she  devoured 
serious  books  with  increasing  intellectual  voracity. 

Her  stepfather  laughed,  and  said  that  the  girl  was  a 
genius  and  ought  not  to  be  hampered  by  ordinary  rules ; 
and  his  wife,  who  had  at  first  feared  lest  he  should  dis- 
like the  child  of  her  first  husband,  was  only  too  glad 
that  he  should,  on  the  contrary,  show  something  like 


A   STORY    OF   MODERN   ROME  47 

paternal  infatuation  for  Cecilia,  since  no  children  of 
his  own  were  born  to  him.  He  was  a  man,  too,  of  wide 
reading  and  experience,  and  having  considerable  politi- 
cal insight  into  his  times.  Before  Cecilia  was  eleven 
years  old  he  talked  to  her  about  serious  matters,  as  if 
she  had  been  grown  up,  and  often  wished  that  the  child 
should  be  at  table  and  in  the  drawing-room  when  men 
who  were  making  history  came  informally  to  the  em- 
bassy. Cecilia  had  listened  to  their  talk,  and  had 
remembered  a  very  large  part  of  what  she  had  heard, 
understanding  more  and  more  as  she  grew  up;  and  by 
far  the  greatest  sorrow  of  her  life  had  been  the  death  of 
her  stepfather. 

She  was  a  modern  Italian  girl,  and  her  mother  was  a 
Roman  who  had  been  brought  up  in  something  of  the 
old  strictness  and  narrowness,  first  in  a  convent,  and 
afterwards  in  a  rather  gloomy  home  under  the  shadow 
of  the  most  rigid  parental  authority.  Exceptional  gifts, 
exceptional  surroundings,  and  exceptional  opportuni- 
ties had  made  Cecilia  Palladio  an  exception  to  all  types, 
and  as  unlike  the  average  modern  Italian  young  girl  as 
could  be  imagined. 

The  sun  had  already  set  as  the  mother  and  daughter 
drove  away,  but  it  was  still  broad  day,  and  a  canopy  of 
golden  clouds,  floating  high  over  the  city,  reflected  rosy 
lights  through  the  blue  shadows  in  the  crowded,  streets. 
The  Countess  Fortiguerra  was  pleasantly  aware  that 
every  man  under  seventy  turned  to  look  after  her 
daughter,  from  the  smart  old  colonel  of  cavalry  in  his 
perfect  uniform  to  the  ragged  and  haggard  waifs  who 


48  CECILIA 

sold  wax  matches  at  the  corners  of  the  streets.  She 
was  not  in  the  least  jealous  of  her,  as  mothers  have 
been  before  now,  and  perhaps  she  was  able  to  enjoy 
vicariously  what  she  herself  had  never  had,  but  had 
often  wished  for,  the  gift  of  nature  which  instantly 
fixes  the  attention  of  the  other  sex. 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  ?  "  asked  Cecilia,  after  a 
silence  that  had  lasted  five  minutes. 

The  Countess  pretended  not  to  understand,  coloured 
a  little,  and  tried  to  look  surprised. 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  that  you  and  the  Princess 
wish  me  to  marry  her  nephew?  " 

This  was  direct,  and  an  answer  was  necessary.  The 
Countess  laughed  soothingly. 

"Dear  child!  "  she  cried,  "it  is  impossible  to  deceive 
you !  We  only  wished  that  you  two  might  meet,  and 
perhaps  like  each  other." 

"Well,"  answered  Cecilia,  "we  have  met." 

The  answer  was  not  encouraging,  and  she  did  not 
seem  inclined  to  say  more  of  her  own  accord,  but  her 
mother  could  not  restrain  a  natural  curiosity. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  in  a  conciliatory  tone,  "but  how  do 
you  like  him?" 

Cecilia  seemed  to  be  hesitating  for  a  moment. 

"Very  much,"  she  answered,  unexpectedly,  after  the 
pause. 

The  Countess  was  so  much  pleased  that  she  coloured 
again.  She  had  never  been  able  to  hide  what  she  felt, 
and  she  secretly  envied  people  who  never  blushed. 

"I  am  so  glad!  "  she  said.  "I  was  sure  you  would 
like  each  other." 


A   STORY  OF  MODERN   ROME  49 

"  It  does  not  follow  that  because  I  like  him,  he  likes 
me,"  answered  Cecilia,  quietly.  "And  even  if  he  does, 
that  is  not  a  reason  why  we  should  marry.  I  may  never 
marry  at  all." 

"  How  can  you  say  such  things  I  "  cried  the  Countess, 
not  at  all  satisfied. 

Cecilia  shrank  a  little  in  her  corner  of  the  deep  phae- 
ton and  instinctively  drew  the  edges  of  her  little  silk 
mantle  together  over  her  chest,  as  if  to  protect  herself 
from  something. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  almost  sharply. 

"I  shall  never  understand  you,"  her  mother  sighed. 

"Give  me  time  to  understand  myself,  mother," 
answered  the  young  girl,  suddenly  unbending.  "I 
am  only  eighteen ;  I  have  never  been  into  the  world, 
and  the  mere  idea  of  marrying  —  " 

She  stopped  short,  and  her  firm  lips  closed  tightly. 

" No,  I  do  not  understand,"  said  the  Countess.  "  The 
thought  of  marriage  was  never  disagreeable  to  me,  even 
when  I  was  quite  young.  It  is  the  natural  object  of  a 
woman's  life." 

"  There  are  exceptions,  surely !  There  are  nuns,  for 
instance." 

"  Oh,  if  you  wish  to  go  into  a  convent  —  " 

"I  have  no  religious  vocation,"  Cecilia  answered 
gravely.     "Or  if  I  have,  it  is  not  of  that  sort." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it  I  "  The  Countess  was  begin- 
ning to  lose  her  temper.  "If  you  thought  you  had, 
you  would  be  quite  capable  of  taking  the  veil." 

"Yes,"  the  young  girl  replied.     "If  I  wished  to  be 


50  CECILIA 

a  nun,  and  if  I  were  sure  that  I  should  be  a  good  nun, 
I  would  enter  a  convent  at  once.  But  I  am  not  natu- 
rally devout,  I  suppose." 

"In  my  time,"  said  the  Countess,  with  emphasis, 
"when  young  girls  did  not  take  the  veil,  they  married." 

As  an  argument,  this  was  weak  and  lacked  logic,  and 
Cecilia  felt  rather  pitiless  just  then. 

"There  are  only  two  possible  ways  of  living,"  she 
jaid ;  "  either  by  religion,  if  you  have  any,  and  that  is 
the  easier,  or  by  rule." 

"And  pray  what  sort  of  rule  can  there  be  to  take  the 
place  of  religion  ?  " 

"Act  so  that  the  reason  for  your  actions  may  be  con- 
sidered a  universal  law." 

"  That  is  nonsense !  "  cried  the  Countess. 

"No,"  replied  Cecilia,  unmoved,  "it  is  Kant's  Cate- 
gorical Imperative." 

"It  makes  no  difference,"  retorted  her  mother.  "It 
is  nonsense." 

Cecilia  said  nothing,  and  her  expression  did  not 
change,  for  she  knew  that  her  mother  could  not  under- 
stand her,  and  she  was  not  at  all  sure  that  she  under- 
stood herself,  as  she  had  almost  confessed.  Seeing 
that  she  did  not  answer,  the  excellent  Countess  took 
the  opportunity  of  telling  her  that  her  head  had  been 
turned  by  too  much  reading,  though  it  was  all  her  poor, 
dear  stepfather's  fault,  since  he  had  filled  her  head  with 
ideas.  What  she  meant  by  "  ideas  "  was  not  clear,  ex- 
cept that  they  were  of  course  dangerous  in  themselves 
and  utterly  subversive  of  social  order,  and  that  the  main 


A  STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  51 

purpose  of  all  education  should  be  to  discourage  them 
in  the  young. 

"They  should  be  left  to  old  people,"  she  concluded; 
"they  have  nothing  else  to  think  of." 

Cecilia  had  heard  very  little,  being  absorbed  in  her 
own  reflections,  but  as  her  mother  often  spoke  in  the 
same  way,  the  general  drift  of  what  she  had  said  was 
unmistakable.  The  two  were  very  unlike,  but  they 
were  not  unloving.  In  her  heart  the  Countess  took  the 
most  unbounded  pride  in  her  only  child's  beauty  and 
cleverness,  except  when  the  latter  opposed  itself  to  her 
social  inclinations  and  ambitions ;  and  the  young  girl 
really  loved  her  mother  when  not  irritated  by  some 
speech  or  action  that  offended  her  taste.  That  her 
mother  should  not  always  understand  her  seemed  quite 
natural. 

They  had  almost  reached  their  door,  the  great  pillared 
porch  of  the  mysterious  Palazzo  Massimo,  in  which  they 
had  an  apartment,  for  they  did  not  live  in  the  villa 
where  the  garden  party  was  to  be  given.  Cecilia's 
gloved  hand  went  out  quietly  to  the  Countess's  and 
gently  pressed  it. 

"Let  me  think  my  own  thoughts,  mother,"  she  said; 
"they  shall  never  hurt  you." 

"Yes,  dear,  of  course, "  answered  the  elder  woman 
meekly,  her  little  burst  of  temper  having  already 
subsided. 

Cecilia  left  her  early  that  evening  and  went  to  her 
own  room  to  be  alone.  It  was  not  that  she  was  tired, 
nor  painfully  affected  by  a  strange  sensation  she  had 


52  CECILIA 

felt  during  the  afternoon ;  but  she  realised  that  she  had 
reached  the  end  of  the  first  stage  in  life,  and  that 
another  was  going  to  begin,  and  it  was  part  of  her 
nature  to  seek  for  a  complete  understanding  of  every- 
thing in  her  existence.  It  seemed  to  her  unworthy  of 
a  thinking  being  to  act  or  to  feel,  without  clearly  defin- 
ing the  cause  of  every  feeling  and  action.  Youth 
dreams  of  an  impossible  completeness  in  carrying  out 
its  self-set  rules  of  perfection,  and  is  swayed  and 
stunned,  and  often  paralysed,  when  they  are  broken  to 
pieces  by  rebellious  human  nature. 

The  room  was  very  large  and  dim,  for  Cecilia  had 
put  out  the  electric  light,  and  had  lit  two  big  wax 
candles,  of  the  sort  that  are  burned  in  churches.  The 
blinds  and  shutters  of  the  windows  were  open,  and  the 
moonlight  fell  in  two  broad  floods  upon  the  pale  carpet, 
half  across  the  floor.  The  white  bed  with  its  high 
canopy  of  lace  looked  ghostly  against  the  furthest  wall, 
like  a  marble  sepulchre  under  a  mist.  The  light  blue 
damask  on  the  walls  was  dark  in  the  gloom,  and  there 
was  not  much  furniture  to  break  the  long  surfaces. 
The  dusky  air  was  cool  and  pure,  for  Cecilia  detested 
perfumes  of  all  sorts. 

She  sat  motionless  in  a  high  carved  seat,  just  in  the 
moonlight,  one  hand  upon  an  arm  of  the  chair,  the  other 
on  her  breast.  She  had  gathered  her  hair  into  a  knot, 
low  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and  the  folds  of  a  soft 
white  robe  just  followed  the  outlines  of  her  figure. 
The  table  on  which  the  candles  stood  was  a  little  behind 
her,  and  away  from  the  window,  and  the  still  yellow 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  58 

light  only  touched  her  hair  in  one  or  two  places,  sending 
back  dull  golden  reflections. 

The  strange  young  face  was  very  quiet,  and  even  the 
lids  rarely  moved  as  she  steadily  stared  into  the  shadow. 
There  was  no  look  of  thought,  nor  any  visible  effort  of 
concentration  in  her  features ;  there  was  rather  an  air 
of  patient  waiting,  of  perfect  readiness  to  receive  what- 
ever should  come  to  her  out  of  the  depths.  So,  a 
beautiful  marble  face  on  a  tomb  gazes  into  the  shadows 
of  a  dim  church,  and  gazes  on,  and  waits,  neither  grow- 
ing nor  changing,  neither  satisfied  nor  disappointed, 
but  calm  and  enduring,  as  if  expecting  the  resurrection 
of  the  dead  and  the  life  of  the  world  to  come.  But  for 
the  rare  drooping  of  the  lids,  that  rested  her  sight,  the 
girl  would  have  seemed  to  be  in  a  trance ;  she  was  in  a 
state  of  almost  perfect  contemplation  that  approached 
to  perfect  happiness,  since  she  was  hardly  conscious 
that  her  strongest  wishes  were  still  unsatisfied. 

She  had  been  in  the  same  state  before  now  —  last 
week,  last  month,  last  year,  and  again  and  again,  as  it 
seemed  to  her,  very  long  ago ;  so  long,  that  the  time 
seemed  like  ages,  and  the  intervals  like  centuries,  until 
it  all  disappeared  altogether  in  the  immeasurable,  and 
the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future  were  around  her 
at  once,  unbroken,  always  ending,  yet  always  begin- 
ning again.  In  the  midst  floated  the  soul,  the  self,  the 
undying  individuality,  a  light  that  shot  out  long  rays, 
like  a  star,  towards  the  ever  present  moments  in  an  ever 
recurring  life  of  which  she  had  been,  and  was,  and  was 
to  be,  most  keenly  conscious. 


64  CECILIA 

So  far,  the  truth,  perhaps;  the  truth,  guessed  by  the 
mystics  of  all  ages,  sometimes  hidden  in  secret  writ- 
ings, sometimes  proclaimed  to  the  light  in  symbols  too 
plain  to  be  understood,  now  veiled  in  the  reasoned 
propositions  of  philosophers,  now  sung  in  sublime 
verse  by  inspired  seers ;  present,  as  truth  always  is,  to 
the  few,  misunderstood,  as  all  truths  are,  by  the  many. 

But  beside  the  truth,  and  outshining  it,  came  the 
illusion,  clear  and  bright,  and  appealing  to  the  heart 
with  the  music  of  all  the  changes  that  are  illusion's 
life.  Sitting  very  still  in  the  moonlight,  Cecilia  saw 
pictures  in  the  shadow,  and  herself  walking  in  the 
mazes  of  many  dreams ;  and  she  watched  them,  till  even 
her  eyelids  no  longer  drooped  from  time  to  time,  and 
her  breathing  ceased  to  stir  the  folds  of  white  upon  her 
bosom. 

Even  then,  she  knew  that  she  herself  was  not  dream- 
ing, but  was  calling  up  dreams  which  she  saw,  which 
could  be  nothing  but  visions  after  all,  and  would  end 
in  a  darkness  beyond  which  she  could  see  nothing,  and 
in  which  she  would  feel  real  physical  pain,  that  would 
be  almost  unbearable,  though  she  knew  that  she  would 
gladly  bear  it  again  and  again,  for  the  sake  of  again 
seeing  the  phantasms  of  herself  drawn  in  mystic  light 
upon  the  shadow. 

They  came  and  followed  one  upon  another,  like  days 
of  life.  There  was  the  beautiful  marble  court  with  its 
deep  portico,  its  pillars,  and  its  overhanging  upper 
story,  all  gleaming  in  the  low  morning  sun ;  she  could 
hear  the  water  softly  laughing  its  way  through  the 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN    ROME  65 

square  marble-edged  basins,  level  with  the  ground,  she 
could  smell  the  spring  violets  that  grew  in  the  neatly 
trimmed  borders,  she  knew  the  faces  of  the  statues  that 
stood  between  the  columns,  and  smiled  at  her.  She 
knew  herself,  young,  golden-haired,  all  in  white,  a 
little  pale  from  the  night's  vigil  before  the  eternal  fire, 
just  entering  the  court  as  she  came  back  from  the  tem- 
ple, and  then  standing  quite  still  for  a  moment,  facing 
the  morning  sun  and  drinking  in  long  draughts  of  the 
sweet  spring  air.  From  far  above,  the  matin  song  of 
birds  came  down  out  of  the  gardens  of  Csesar's  palace, 
and  high  over  the  court  the  sounds  of  the  Forum 
began  to  ring  and  echo,  as  they  did  all  day  and  half 
the  night. 

It  was  herself,  her  very  self,  that  was  there,  resting 
one  hand  upon  a  fluted  column  and  looking  upwards, 
her  eyes,  her  face,  her  figure,  real  and  unchanged  after 
ages,  as  they  were  hers  now;  and  in  her  look  there  was 
the  infinite  longing,  the  readiness  to  receive,  which  she 
felt  still  and  must  feel  always,  to  the  end  of  time. 

Now,  the  dream  would  move  on,  slowly  and  full  of 
details.  The  lithe  dream  figure  would  rest  in  the  small 
white  room  at  the  upper  end  of  the  court,  and  resting, 
would  dream  dreams  within  that  dream ;  and,  looking 
on,  she  herself  would  know  what  they  were.  They 
would  be  full  of  a  deep  desire  to  be  free  for  ever  from 
earth  and  body  and  life,  joined  for  all  eternity  with 
something  pure  and  high  that  could  not  be  seen,  but  of 
which  her  soul  was  a  part,  mingled  with  the  changing 
things  for  a  time,  but  to  be  withdrawn  from  them  again. 


56  CECILIA 

maiden  and  spotless  as  it  had  come  amongst  them,  a 
true  and  perfect  Vestal. 

The  precious  treasures  in  the  secret  places  of  the 
little  temple  would  pass  away,  the  rudely  carved  wooden 
image  of  Pallas  would  crumble  to  dust,  the  shields 
that  had  come  down  from  heaven  would  fall  to  pieces 
in  green  corrosion,  the  sacred  vessels  would  be  broken 
or  come  to  a  base  use,  the  fire  would  go  out  and  Vesta's 
hearth  would  be  cold  for  ever. 

At  the  mere  thought,  the  sleeping  face  in  the  vision 
would  tremble  and  grow  pale  for  a  moment,  but  soon 
would  smile  again,  for  the  fire  had  been  faithfully 
tended  all  the  night  long. 

But  it  would  all  pass  away,  even  the  place,  even 
Rome  herself,  and  in  the  sphere  of  divine  joy  the 
sleeper  would  forget  even  to  dream,  and  would  be 
quite  at  rest,  until  the  mid-hour  of  day,  when  a  com- 
panion would  come  softly  to  the  door  and  wake  her 
with  gentle  words  and  kindly  touch,  to  join  the  other 
Vestals  at  the  thrice-purified  table  in  the  cool  hall. 

So  the  warm  hours  would  pass,  and  later,  if  she 
chose,  the  holy  maiden  might  go  out  into  the  city, 
whithersoever  she  would,  borne  in  a  high,  open  litter 
by  many  slaves,  with  a  stern  lictor  walking  before  her, 
and  the  people  would  fall  back  on  either  side.  If  she 
chanced  to  meet  one  of  the  Praetors,  or  even  the  Con- 
sul himself,  their  guards  would  salute  her  as  no  sov- 
ereign would  be  saluted  in  Rome;  and  should  she  see 
some  wretched  thieving  slave  being  led  to  death  on  the 
cross  upon  the  Esquiline,  her  slightest  word  could  re- 


A   STORY   OF  MODERN   ROME  67 

yerse  all  his  condemnation,  and  blot  out  all  his  crimes. 
For  she  was  sacred  to  the  Goddess,  and  above  Consuls 
and  Praetors  and  judges.  But  none  of  those  things 
would  touch  her  heart  nor  please  her  vanity,  for  all  her 
pure  young  soul  was  bent  on  freedom  from  this  earth, 
divine  and  eternal,  as  the  end  of  a  sinless  life. 

The  eyes  in  the  dream,  the  eyes  of  the  girl  who  stood 
by  the  column,  drinking  the  morning  air,  had  never 
met  the  eyes  of  a  man  with  the  wish  that  a  glance 
might  linger  to  a  look.  But  she  who  watched  the 
dream  knew  that  the  time  was  at  hand,  and  that  the 
dark  cloud  of  fear  was  already  gathering  which  was  to 
darken  her  sun  and  break  by  and  by  in  an  unknown 
fear.  She  knew  it,  she,  the  waking  Cecilia  Palladio; 
but  the  other  Cecilia,  the  Vestal  of  long  ago,  guessed 
nothing  of  the  future,  and  stood  there  breathing  softly, 
already  refreshed  after  the  night's  watching.  It  would 
all  happen,  as  it  always  happened,  little  by  little,  detail 
after  detail,  till  the  dreaded  moment. 

But  it  did  not.  The  dream  changed.  Instead  of 
crossing  the  marble  court,  and  lingering  a  moment  by 
the  water,  the  Vestal  stood  by  the  column,  against  the 
background  of  shade  cast  by  the  portico.  She  was  lis- 
tening now,  she  was  expecting  some  one,  she  was  glanc- 
ing anxiously  about  as  if  to  see  whether  any  one  were 
there ;  but  she  was  alone. 

Then  it  came,  in  the  shadow  behind  her,  the  face  of 
a  man,  moving  nearer  —  a  rugged  Roman  head,  with 
deep-set,  bold  blue  eye,  big  brows,  a  great  jaw,  reddish 
hair.    It  came  nearer,  and  the  girl  knew  it  was  coming. 


58  CECILIA 

In  an  instant  more,  she  would  spring  forward  across  the 
court,  crying  out  for  protection. 

No,  she  did  not  move  till  the  man  was  close  to  her, 
looking  over  her  shoulder,  whispering  in  her  ear.  Ce- 
cilia saw  it  all,  and  it  was  so  real  that  she  tried  to  call 
out,  to  shriek,  to  make  any  sound  that  could  save  her 
image  from  destruction,  for  the  kiss  that  was  coming 
would  be  death  to  both,  and  death  with  unutterable 
shame  and  pain.  But  her  voice  was  gone,  and  her  lips 
were  frozen.  She  sat  paralysed  with  a  horror  she  had 
never  known  before,  while  the  face  of  the  phantom  girl 
blushed  softly,  and  turned  to  the  strong  man,  and  the 
two  gazed  into  each  other's  eyes  a  moment,  knowing 
that  they  loved. 

She  felt  that  it  was  her  other  self,  and  that  she  had 
the  will  to  resist,  even  then,  and  that  the  will  must 
still  be  supreme  over  the  illusion.  Never,  it  seemed 
to  her,  had  she  made  such  a  supreme  effort,  never  had 
she  felt  such  power  concentrated  in  her  strong  deter- 
mination, never  in  all  her  life  had  she  been  so  sure  of 
the  result  when  she  had  willed  anything  with  all  her 
might.  Every  fibre  of  her  being,  every  nerve  in  her 
body,  every  throbbing  cell  of  her  brain  was  strained  to 
breaking.  The  two  faces  were  quite  close,  the  longing- 
lips  had  almost  met  —  nothing  could  hinder,  nothing 
could  save ;  the  phantasms  did  not  know  that  she  was 
watching  them. 

Suddenly  something  changed.  She  no  longer  saw 
herself  in  a  vision,  she  was  hei'self  there,  somewhere, 
in  the  dark,  in  the  light  —  she  did  not  know  —  and 


^       A   STORY   OF   MODEBH   BOIilB  59 

there  was  no  will,  nor  thought,  nor  straining  resist- 
ance any  more,  for  Lamberto  Lamberti  held  her  in  his 
arms,  her,  Cecilia  Palladio,  her  very  living  self,  and 
his  lips  were  upon  hers,  and  she  loved  him  beyond 
death,  or  life,  or  fear,  or  torment.  Surely  she  was 
dying  then,  for  the  darkness  was  whirling  with  her, 
spinning  itself  into  myriads  of  circles  of  fiery  stars, 
tearing  her  over  the  brink  of  the  world  to  eternity 
beyond. 

One  second  more  and  it  must  have  ended  so.  In- 
stead, she  was  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  between  the 
moonlight  and  the  steadily  burning  candles,  in  her  own 
room,  alone.  From  head  to  foot  she  trembled,  and  now 
and  then  drew  a  short  and  gasping  breath.  Her  parted 
lips  were  moist  and  very  cold.  She  touched  them,  and 
they  felt  like  flowers  at  night,  wet  with  dew.  She 
pushed  the  hair  from  her  forehead,  and  her  brow  was 
strangely  damp. 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  cry  of  terror,  and  stared 
at  the  door,  for  she  was  quite  sure  that  she  had  heard  it 
close  softly.  It  was  a  heavy  door,  that  turned  noise- 
lessly on  its  hinges  and  fitted  perfectly,  and  she  knew 
the  soft  click  of  the  well-made  French  lock  when  the 
spring  quietly  pushed  the  bevelled  latch-bolt  into  the 
socket.  In  an  instant  she  had  crossed  the  room  and 
had  turned  the  handle  to  draw  it  in.  But  the  door  was 
locked,  beyond  all  doubt  —  she  had  turned  the  key 
before  she  had  sat  down  in  the  chair.  She  felt  intensely 
cold,  and  an  icy  wave  seemed  to  lift  her  hair  from  her 
forehead.      Her  hand   instinctively   found  the   white 


M  CECILIA 

button,  close  beside  the  door-frame,  which  contoolled 
all  the  electric  lamps,  and  pushed  it  in,  and  the  room 
was  flooded  with  light.  She  must  have  imagined  that 
she  had  heard  the  sound  that  had  frightened  her. 

Half  dazed,  she  moved  slowly  to  the  windows,  and 
closed  the  inner  shutters,  one  by  one,  shutting  out  the 
cold  moonlight,  then  stood  by  the  chair  a  moment, 
looked  at  it,  and  glanced  in  the  direction  whence  the 
vision  had  come  to  her  out  of  the  shadow. 

She  did  not  know  how  it  happened,  but  presently  she 
was  lying  on  her  bed,  her  face  buried  in  the  pillows, 
and  she  was  tearing  her  heart  out  in  a  tearless  storm  of 
shame  and  self-contempt. 

What  right  had  that  man  whom  she  had  so  often  seen 
in  her  dreams  to  be  alive  in  the  real  world,  walking 
among  other  men,  recognising  her,  as  she  had  felt  that 
he  did  that  very  afternoon?  What  right  had  he  to 
come  to  her  again  in  the  vision  and  to  change  it  all, 
to  take  her  in  his  violent  arms  and  kiss  her  on  the 
mouth,  and  burn  the  mark  of  shame  into  her  soul,  and 
fill  her  with  a  pleasure  more  horrible  than  any  pain  ? 
Was  this  the  end  of  all  her  girlish  meditation,  of  the 
Vestal's  longing  for  higher  things,  of  the  mystic's  per- 
fect way?  A  man's  brutal  kiss  not  even  resisted? 
Was  that  all  ?  It  could  not  have  been  worse  if  on  that 
same  day  she  had  been  alone  with  him  in  the  garden, 
instead  of  with  Guido  d'Este,  and  if  he  had  suddenly 
put  his  arms  round  her,  and  if  she  had  not  even  turned 
her  face  from  his. 

It  was  only  a  dream.     Yes,   to-morrow  she  would 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  61 

awake,  if  she  slept  at  all,  and  the  sunshine  would  be 
streaming  in  where  the  moonlight  had  shone,  and  it 
would  only  be  a  dream,  past  and  to  be  forgotten.  Per- 
haps. But  what  were  dreams,  then  ?  She  had  not  been 
asleep,  she  was  quite  sure.  There  was  not  even  that 
poor  excuse.  The  man's  phantasm  had  come  to  her 
awake. 

And  Lamberto  Lamberti  was  nothing  to  her.  Beyond 
the  startling  recognition  of  a  face  long  familiar,  but 
never  seen  among  the  living,  he  was  to  her  a  man  she 
had  met  but  once,  and  did  not  wish  to  meet  again.  She 
had  been  aware  of  his  presence  near  her  at  the  Princess's, 
and  when  he  had  gone  away  she  had  looked  at  him  once 
more  with  a  sort  of  wonder;  but  she  had  felt  nothing 
else,  she  had  not  touched  his  hand,  the  thought  that 
he  would  ever  dare  to  seize  her  roughly  in  his  arms 
l)rought  burning  blushes  to  her  cheek  and  outraged  all 
her  maiden  senses.  She  had  never  seen  any  man  whom 
she  could  suffer  to  touch  her;  her  whole  nature  revolted 
at  the  thought.  Yet,  just  now,  there  had  been  neither 
revolt  nor  resistance ;  she  felt  that  she  had  been  herself, 
awake,  alive,  and  consenting  to  an  unknown  but  fright- 
fully real  contamination,  from  which  her  soul  could 
never  again  be  wholly  clean. 

The  storm  subsided,  and  sullen  waves  of  self-con- 
tempt swelled  and  sank,  as  if  to  overwhelm  her  drown- 
ing soul.  She  understood  at  last  the  ascetic's  wrath 
against  the  mortal  body  and  his  irresistible  craving  for 
bodily  pain. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Veey  early  in  the  morning  Cecilia  fell  into  a  dream- 
less sleep  at  last,  and  awoke,  unrefreshed,  after  nine 
o'clock.  She  felt  very  tired  and  listless  as  she  opened 
the  window  a  little  and  let  in  the  light  and  air,  with 
the  sounds  of  the  busy  thoroughfare  below.  The 
weather  was  suddenly  much  warmer,  and  her  head  was 
heavy. 

It  had  all  been  a  dream,  no  doubt,  and  was  gone 
where  dreams  go ;  but  it  had  been  like  a  fight,  out  of 
which  she  had  come  alive  by  a  miracle,  bruised  and 
wounded,  and  offended  in  her  whole  being.  Never 
again  would  she  sit  alone  at  night  and  look  for  her 
image  in  the  shadow,  since  such  things  could  come  of 
playing  with  visions ;  and  she  trusted  that  she  might 
never  again  set  eyes  upon  Lamberto  Lamberti.  She 
was  alone,  but  at  the  thought  of  meeting  him  she 
blushed  and  bit  her  lip  angrily.  How  was  it  possible 
that  he  should  know  what  she  had  dreamt  ?  For  years, 
in  that  dream  of  the  Vestal,  a  being  had  played  a  part, 
a  being  too  like  him  in  face  to  be  another  man,  but 
who  had  loved  her  as  a  goddess,  and  whom  she  had 
loved  for  his  matchless  bravery  and  his  glorious  strength 
over  himself.  It  was  a  long  story,  that  had  gradually 
grown  clear  in  every  detail,  that  had  gone  far  beyond 

62 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  63 

death  to  a  spiritual  life  in  a  place  of  light,  though  it 
had  always  ended  in  something  vaguely  fearful  that 
brought  her  back  to  the  world,  and  to  her  present  liv- 
ing self,  to  begin  again.  She  could  not  go  over  it  now, 
but  she  was  conscious,  and  to  her  shame,  that  the  spell 
of  perfect  happiness  had  always  been  broken  at  last  by 
the  taint  of  earthly  longing  and  regret  that  crept  up 
stealthily  from  the  world  below,  an  evil  mist,  laden 
with  poison  and  fever  and  mortality. 

That  change  had  been  undefined,  though  it  had  been 
horrible  and  irresistible;  it  had  been  evil,  but  it  had 
not  been  brutal,  and  it  had  thrilled  her  with  the  cer- 
tainty of  passion  and  pain  to  come,  realising  neither 
while  dreading  and  loving  both. 

She  had  read  the  writings  of  men  who  believe  that 
by  long  meditation  and  practised  intention  the  real  self 
of  man  or  woman  can  be  separated  from  all  that  darkens 
it,  though  not  easily,  because  it  is  bound  up  with  frag- 
ments, as  it  were,  of  the  selves  of  others,  with  all  the 
inheritances  of  a  hundred  generations  of  good  and  bad, 
with  sleeping  instincts  and  passions  any  of  which  may 
suddenly  spring  up  and  overwhelm  the  rest.  She  had 
also  read  that  the  real  self,  when  found  at  last,  might 
be  far  better  and  purer  than  the  mixed  self  of  every 
day,  which  each  of  us  knows  and  counts  upon;  but 
that  it  might  also  be  much  worse,  much  coarser,  much 
more  violent,  when  freed  from  every  other  influence, 
and  that  coming  upon  it  unawares  and  unprepared,  men 
had  lost  their  reason  altogether  beyond  recovery. 

She  asked  herself  now  whether  this  was  what  had 


64  CECILIA 

happened  to  her,  and  no  answer  came ;  there  was  only 
the  very  weary  blank  of  a  great  uncertainty,  in  which 
anything  might  be,  or  in  which  there  might  be  nothing ; 
and  then,  there  was  the  vivid  burning  fear  of  meeting 
Lamberto  Lamberti  face  to  face.  That  was  by  far  the 
strongest  and  most  clearly  defined  of  her  sensations. 

If  the  Princess  Anatolie  could  have  known  what 
Cecilia  felt  that  morning,  she  would  have  been  exceed- 
ingly well  pleased,  and  Cecilia's  own  mother  would 
have  considered  that  this  was  a  case  in  which  the 
powers  of  evil  had  been  permitted  to  work  for  the 
accomplishment  of  a  good  end.  Nothing  could  have 
distressed  the  excellent  Countess  more  than  that  hex 
daughter  should  accidentally  fall  in  love  with  Lam- 
berti, who  was  a  younger  son  in  a  numerous  family, 
with  no  prospects  beyond  those  offered  by  his  profes- 
sion. Nothing  could  have  interfered  more  directly 
with  the  Princess's  sensible  intentions  for  her  nephew. 
Perhaps  nothing  could  have  caused  greater  surprise  to 
Lamberti  himself.  On  the  other  hand,  Guido  d'Este 
would  have  been  glad,  but  not  surprised.  He  rarely 
was. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  he  left  a  card  at  the  Palazzo 
Massimo  for  the  Countess  Fortiguerra,  and  as  he  turned 
away  he  regretted  that  he  could  not  ask  for  her,  and 
see  her,  and  possibly  see  her  daughter  also.  That  was 
evidently  out  of  the  question  as  yet,  according  to  his 
social  laws,  but  his  regret  was  real.  It  was  long  since 
any  woman's  face  had  left  him  more  than  a  vague  im- 
pression of  good  looks,  or  dulness,  but  he  had  thought 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  65 

a  good  deal  about  Cecilia  Palladio  since  he  had  met 
her,  and  he  knew  that  he  wished  to  talk  with  her 
again,  however  much  he  might  resent  the  idea  that  he 
was  meant  to  marry  her.  She  was  the  first  young  girl 
he  had  ever  known  who  had  not  bored  him  with  plati- 
tudes or  made  conversation  impossible  by  obstinate 
silence. 

It  was  true  that  he  had  not  talked  with  her  much,  and 
at  first  it  had  seemed  hard  to  talk  at  all,  but  the  ice  had 
been  broken  suddenly,  and  for  a  few  minutes  he  had 
found  it  easy.  As  for  the  chilling  coldness  of  her  last 
words,  he  could  account  for  that  easily  enough.  Like 
himself,  she  had  seen  that  a  marriage  had  been  planned 
for  her  without  her  knowledge,  and,  like  him,  she  had 
resented  the  trap.  For  a  while  she  had  forgotten,  as 
he  had  done,  but  had  remembered  suddenly  when  they 
were  about  to  part.  She  had  meant  to  show  him  plainly 
that  she  had  not  had  any  voice  in  the  matter,  and  he 
liked  her  the  better  for  it,  now  that  he  understood  her 
meaning. 

She  was  like  the  Psyche,  he  thought,  and  it  occurred 
to  him  that  he  could  buy  a  cast  of  the  statue.  He  had 
always  thought  it  beautiful.  He  strolled  through  nar- 
row streets  in  the  late  afternoon  till  he  came  to  the 
shop  of  a  dealer  in  casts,  of  whom  he  had  once  bought 
something,  and  he  went  in.  The  man  had  what  he 
wanted,  and  he  examined  it  carefully. 

She  was  not  like  the  Psyche  after  all,  and  the  crude 
white  plaster  shocked  his  taste  for  the  first  time.  If 
the  marble  original  had  been  in  Rome,  instead  of  in 


66  CECILIA 

Naples,  he  could  have  gone  to  see  it.  He  left  the  shop 
disappointed,  and  walked  slowly  towards  the  Farnese 
palace.  The  day  seemed  endless,  and  there  was  no 
particular  reason  why  all  days  should  not  seem  as  long. 
There  was  nothing  to  do;  nothing  amused  him,  and 
nobody  asked  anything  of  him.  It  would  be  very 
strange  and  pleasant  to  be  of  use  in  the  world. 

He  went  home  and  sat  down  by  the  open  window 
that  looked  across  the  Tiber.  The  wide  room  was 
flooded  with  the  evening  light,  and  warm  with  mucli 
colour  that  lingered  and  floated  about  beautiful  objectfj 
here  and  there.  It  was  not  a  very  luxuriously  fur- 
nished room,  but  it  was  not  the  habitation  of  an  ascetic 
or  puritanical  man  eithero  Guido  cared  more  for  rare 
engravings  and  etchings  than  for  pictures,  and  a  few 
very  fine  framed  prints  stood  on  the  big  writing  table ; 
there  was  Diirer's  Melancholia,  and  the  Saint  Jerome, 
and  the  Little  White  Horse,  and  the  small  Saint  An- 
thony, and  Rembrandt's  Three  Trees,  all  by  itself,  as 
the  most  wonderful  etching  in  the  world  deserved 
to  be;  and  here  and  there,  about  the  room,  were  a 
few  good  engravings  by  Martin  Schongauer,  and  by 
Mantegna,  and  by  Marcantonio  Raimondi.  The  bold, 
careless,  effective  drawing  of  the  Italian  engravers 
contrasted  strongly  with  the  profoundly  conscientious 
work  of  Schongauer  and  Lucas  van  Leyden,  and  re- 
vealed at  a  glance  the  incomparable  mastery  of  Diirer's 
dry  point  and  Rembrandt's  etching  needle,  the  deep 
conviction  of  the  German,  and  the  inexhaustible  rich- 
ness of  the  Dutchman's  imaginatioHo 


A   STOBY   OF   MODERN   ROME  67 

A  picture  hung  over  the  fireplace,  the  picture  of  a 
woman,  at  half  length  and  a  little  smaller  than  life, 
holding  in  exquisite  hands  a  small  covered  vessel  of 
silver  encrusted  with  gold,  and  gazing  out  into  the 
warm  light  with  the  gentlest  hazel  eyes.  A  veil  of 
olive  green  covered  her  head,  but  the  fair  hair  found 
its  way  out,  tresses  and  ringlets,  on  each  side  of  the 
face.  The  woman  was  perhaps  a  Magdalen,  not  like 
any  other  Magdalen  in  all  the  paintings  of  the  world, 
and  more  the  great  lady  of  the  castle  of  Magdalon,  she 
of  the  Golden  Legend.  When  Andrea  del  Sarto  painted 
that  face,  he  meant  something  that  he  never  told,  and 
it  pleased  Guido  d'Este  to  try  and  guess  the  secret. 
As  he  glanced  at  the  canvas,  glowing  in  the  rich  light, 
it  struck  him  that  perhaps  Cecilia  Palladio  was  more 
like  the  woman  in  the  picture  than  she  was  like  the 
Psyche.  Then  he  almost  laughed,  and  turned  away, 
for  he  realised  that  he  was  thinking  of  the  girl  continu- 
ally, and  saw  her  face  everywhere. 

He  turned  away  impatiently,  in  spite  of  the  smile. 
He  was  annoyed  by  the  attraction  he  felt  towards  Ce- 
cilia, because  the  thought  of  marrying  an  heiress,  in 
order  that  his  aunt  might  recover  money  she  had  liter- 
ally thrown  away,  was  grossly  repulsive ;  and  also,  no 
doubt,  because  he  was  not  docile,  though  he  was  good- 
natured,  and  he  hated  to  have  anything  in  his  life 
planned  for  him  by  others.  He  was  still  less  pleased 
now  that  he  found  himself  searching  for  reasons  which 
should  justify  him  in  marrying  Cecilia  in  spite  of  all 
this.    Nothing  irritates  a  man  more  than  his  own  inborn 


68  CECILIA 

inconsistency,  whereas  he  enjoys  diabolical  satisfaction 
in  convicting  any  woman  of  the  same  fault. 

After  all,  said  his  Inclination,  as  if  coolly  arguing 
the  case,  if  poor  men  were  only  to  marry  poor  girls, 
and  rich  men  rich  ones,  something  unnatural  would 
happen  to  the  distribution  of  wealth,  which  was  unde- 
sirable for  the  future  of  society.  Of  course,  a  rich  man 
might  marry  a  poor  girl  if  he  chose.  That  was  done, 
and  the  men  who  did  it  got  an  extraordinary  amount  of 
credit  for  being  disinterested,  unless  they  were  laughed 
at  for  falling  in  love  with  a  pretty  face.  If  anything 
could  prove  the  hopeless  inequality  of  woman  with  man, 
it  would  be  that  1  No  one  thought  much  the  worse  of 
a  penniless  girl  who  married  for  money,  whereas  a 
starving  dandy  who  did  the  same  thing  immediately 
became  an  object  of  derision. 

But  then,  added  the  Inclination,  with  subtlety,  the 
opinions  of  society  were  entirely  manufactured  by 
women  for  their  own  advantage,  and  that  was  an  ex- 
cellent reason  for  not  caring  what  society  thought. 
The  all-powerful,  impersonal  "they,"  of  whom  we  only 
know  what  "they  say,"  what  "they  wear,"  and  what 
"they  pretend,"  are  feminine  and  plural;  they  rule  all 
that  region  of  the  world  within  which  women  do  not 
work  with  their  hands,  and  are  therefore  at  full  liberty 
to  exercise  those  gifts  of  intelligence  which  it  has 
pleased  Providence  to  bestow  upon  them  so  plentifully. 
They  do  so  to  some  purpose. 

Surely,  argued  Inclination,  it  was  not  very  dignified 
of  Guido  to  care  much,  and  to  care  beforehand,  for  the 


A  STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  69 

opinions  of  a  pack  of  women,  supposing  that  he  should 
come  to  like  Cecilia  enough  to  wish  to  marry  her  for 
her  own  sake.  And  besides,  though  he  was  poor,  he 
was  not  uncomfortably  so.  Poverty  meant  not  having 
horses  and  carriages,  nor  a  yacht,  and  living  in  bach- 
elor's rooms,  and  not  giving  dinner  parties,  and  not 
playing  cards,  and  not  giving  every  woman  whatever 
she  fancied,  if  it  happened  to  be  a  pearl  or  a  pigeon's 
blood  ruby.  That  was  poverty,  of  course,  but  it  was 
relative. 

If  his  aunt  did  not  drive  him  to  blow  out  his  brains 
in  a  fit  of  impatience,  there  was  no  reason  why  Guido 
should  not  go  on  living,  as  he  lived  now,  to  the  far  end 
of  a  long  and  sufficiently  well-fed  life.  And  if  he  mar- 
ried Cecilia  and  her  fortune,  it  would  certainly  not  be 
because  he  wished  to  give  other  women  rubies  and 
pearls,  nor  for  the  sake  of  keeping  a  couple  of  hunters, 
two  or  three  carriages,  and  a  coach ;  still  less,  because 
he  could  ever  wish  to  lose  money  again  at  baccara,  or 
poker,  or  bridge.  He  had  done  all  those  things,  and 
they  had  not  amused  him  long.  If  he  ever  married 
Cecilia,  it  would  be  because  he  fell  in  love  with  her, 
which,  thank  goodness,  had  not  happened  yet.  In- 
clination was  quite  sure  of  that,  but  was  willing  to 
admit  the  possibility  in  the  future,  merely  for  the  sake 
of  argument. 

Before  it  was  time  to  dress  for  dinner  that  evening, 
Guido  received  a  long  letter  from  his  aunt,  written 
with  her  own  hand,  which  probably  meant  that  Mon- 
sieur Leroy  knew  little   or  nothing  of  its   contents. 


70  CECILIA 

Guido  glanced  at  the  pages,  one  after  another,  and 
saw  that  the  whole  letter  was  in  the  writer's  most 
affectionate  manner.  Then  he  read  it  carefully.  It 
had  been  so  kind  of  him  to  be  civil  to  her  friends  on 
the  previous  day,  said  the  Princess.  He  reminded  her 
of  his  poor  father,  her  dear  brother,  who,  in  all  his 
many  misfortunes,  had  never  once  lost  his  beautiful 
affability  of  temper  and  unfailing  courtesy  to  every  one 
about  him. 

This  was  very  pretty,  but  Guido  had  heard  that  his 
father's  beautiful  affability  had  sometimes  been  ruffled 
so  far  as  to  allow  a  certain  harmless  violence,  such  as 
hurling  a  light  chair  at  the  head  of  a  faithful  courtier 
and  friend  who  gave  him  advice  that  was  too  good  to 
be  taken,  or  summarily  boxing  the  ears  of  his  son  and 
heir  when  the  latter  was  already  over  thirty  years  old. 

Guido  sometimes  wondered  why  he  had  not  inherited 
some  of  that  very  unroyal  temper,  which  must  have 
been  such  a  thoroughly  satisfactory  relief  to  the  ex- 
king's  feelings.  He  never  felt  the  least  desire  to  dance 
with  rage  and  throw  the  furniture  about  the  room. 

His  aunt's  letter  was  evidently  meant  to  please  him 
and  flatter  his  vanity,  and  she  did  not  once  refer  to 
matters  of  business.  She  asked  his  opinion  about  a 
new  novel  he  had  not  read  yet,  and  had  he  thought  of 
leaving  a  card  on  the  Countess  Fortiguerra?  She  lived 
in  the  Palazzo  Massimo.  What  a  strange  girl  the 
daughter  was,  to  be  surel  so  very  unlike  other  girls 
that  it  was  almost  disquieting  to  talk  with  her.  Of 
course  there  was  nothing  real  behind  all  that  superficial 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  71 

talk  about  lectures  at  the  Sorbonne,  and  Nietzsche,  and 
all  that.  Everybody  pretended  to  have  read  Nietzsche 
nowadays,  and  after  all  the  girl  might  be  quite  sensible. 
One  could  not  help  wondering  what  she  would  make  of 
her  life,  with  her  handsome  fortune,  and  her  odd  ideas, 
and  no  one  to  look  after  her  except  that  dear,  gentle, 
sweet-tempered,  foolish  mother,  who  was  in  perpetual 
adoration  before  her!  It  would  be  a  brave  man  who 
would  marry  such  a  girl,  the  Princess  wrote,  in  spite 
of  her  money;  but  there  was  this  to  be  said,  he  would 
not  have  any  trouble  with  his  mother-in-law. 

Subtle,  very  subtle  of  the  Princess,  who  left  the  sub- 
ject there  and  ended  her  letter  by  asking  a  favour  of 
Guido.  It  was  indeed  only  for  the  sake  of  asking  it, 
she  explained,  that  she  was  writing  to  him  at  all. 
Would  he  allow  a  great  friend  of  hers  to  see  his  Andrea 
del  Sarto?  It  was  the  celebrated  art  critic,  Doctor 
Baumgarten,  of  whom  he  had  heard.  Leroy  would 
bring  him  the  next  morning  about  ten  o'clock,  if  Guido 
had  no  objection.  He  need  not  answer;  he  must  not 
take  any  trouble  about  the  matter.  If  he  had  an  en- 
gagement at  ten,  perhaps  he  would  leave  orders  that 
the  Doctor  should  be  allowed  to  see  the  picture. 

Guido  did  not  think  at  once  of  any  good  reason  for 
refusing  such  a  request.  He  was  very  fond  of  his 
Andrea  del  Sarto ;  indeed,  he  liked  it  much  better  than 
a  small  Raphael  of  undoubted  authenticity  which  was 
hung  in  another  part  of  the  room.  The  German  critic 
was  quite  welcome  to  see  both,  and  perhaps  knew  some- 
thing about  prints  which  might  be  worth  learning.    He 


72  CECILIA 

was  probably  writing  a  book.  Germans  were  always 
writing  books.  Guido  wrote  a  line  to  thank  his  aunt 
for  her  letter,  and  to  say  that  her  friend  would  be  wel- 
come at  the  appointed  hour. 

He  was  sealing  the  note  when  the  door  opened  and 
Lamberto  Lamberti  came  in. 

"Will  you  come  and  dine  with  me?"  he  asked, 
standing  still  before  the  writing  table. 

"Let  us  dine  here,"  answered  Guido,  without  look- 
ing up,  and  examining  the  little  seal  he  had  made  on 
the  envelope.  "I  daresay  there  is  something  to  eat." 
He  held  out  the  note  to  his  servant,  who  stood  in  the 
open  doorway.     "Send  this  at  once,"  he  said. 

"Yes, "said  Lamberti,  answering  the  invitation.  "I 
do  not  care  whether  there  is  anything  to  eat  or  not,  and 
it  is  always  quiet  here." 

"What  is  the  matter?  "  asked  Guido,  looking  at  him 
attentively  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  entered. 
"Yes,"  he  added  to  his  man,  "Signer  Lamberti  will 
dine  with  me." 

The  servant  disappeared  and  shut  the  door.  Guido 
repeated  his  question,  but  Lamberti  only  shook  his 
head  carelessly  and  relit  his  half-smoked  cigar.  Guido 
watched  him.  He  was  less  red  than  usual,  and  his 
eyes  glittered  in  the  light  of  the  wax  match.  His 
voice  had  sounded  sharp  and  metallic,  as  Guido  had 
never  heard  it  before. 

When  two  men  are  intimate  friends  and  really  trust 
each  other  they  do  not  overwhelm  one  another  with 
questions.  Each  knows  that  each  will  speak  when  he 
is  ready,  or  needs  help  or  sympathy. 


A   STORY    OF   MODERN   ROME  78 

"  I  have  just  been  answering  a  very  balmy  letter  from 
my  aunt,"  Guido  said,  rising  from  the  table.  "Sweeter 
than  honey  in  the  honeycomb!  Read  it.  It  has  a  dis- 
tinctly literary  and  biographical  turn.  The  allusion  to 
my  father's  gentle  disposition  is  touching." 

Lamberti  looked  through  the  letter  carelessly,  dropped 
it  on  the  table,  and  sucked  hard  at  his  cigar. 

"What  did  you  expect?"  he  asked,  between  two 
puffs.  "  For  the  present  you  are  the  apple  of  her  eye. 
She  will  handle  you  as  tenderly  as  a  new-laid  egg,  until 
she  gets  what  she  wants  I  " 

Lamberti's  similes  lacked  sequence,  but  not  character. 

"The  Romans,"  observed  Guido,  "began  with  the 
egg  and  ended  with  the  apple.  I  have  an  idea  that  we 
are  going  to  do  the  same  thing  at  dinner,  and  that  there 
will  be  nothing  between.  But  we  can  smoke  between 
the  courses." 

"Yes,"  answered  Lamberti,  who  had  not  heard  a 
word.     "I  daresay." 

Guido  looked  at  him  again,  rather  furtively.  Lam- 
berti never  drank  and  had  iron  nerves,  but  he  was  vis- 
ibly disturbed.  He  was  what  people  vaguely  call  "  not 
quite  himself." 

Guido  went  to  the  door  of  his  bedroom. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Lamberti,  shai-ply. 

"I  am  going  to  wash  my  hands  before  dinner,"  Guido 
answered  with  a  smile.    "  Do  you  want  to  wash  yours  ?  " 

"No,  thank  you.     I  have  just  dressed." 

He  turned  his  back  and  went  to  the  open  window  as 
Guido  left  the  room.     In  a  few  seconds  his  cigar  had 


74  CECILIA 

gone  out  again,  and  he  was  leaning  on  the  sill  with  both 
hands,  staring  at  the  twilight  sky  in  the  west.  The 
colours  had  all  faded  away  to  the  almost  neutral  tint 
of  straw-tempered  steel. 

The  outline  of  the  Janieulum  stood  out  sharp  and 
black  in  an  uneven  line.  Below,  there  were  the  scat- 
tered lights  of  Trastevere,  the  flowing  river,  and  the 
silence  of  the  deserted  Via  Giulia.  Lamberti  looked 
steadily  out,  biting  his  extinguished  cigar,  and  his 
features  contracted  as  if  he  were  in  pain. 

He  had  come  to  his  friend  instinctively,  as  his  friend 
would  have  come  to  him,  meaning  to  tell  him  what  had 
happened.  But  he  hesitated.  Besides,  it  might  all 
have  been  only  his  imagination ;  in  part  it  could  have 
been  nothing  else,  and  the  rest  was  a  mere  coincidence. 
But  he  had  never  been  an  imaginative  man,  and  it  was 
strange  that  he  should  be  so  much  affected  by  a  mere 
illusion. 

He  started  and  turned  suddenly,  sure  that  some  one 
was  close  behind  him.  But  there  was  no  one,  and  a 
moment  later  Guido  came  back.  Anxious  not  to  annoy 
his  friend  by  anything  like  curiosity,  he  made  a  pre- 
tence of  setting  his  writing  table  in  order,  turned  one 
of  the  lamps  down  a  little  —  he  hated  electric  light  — 
and  then  looked  at  the  picture  over  the  fireplace. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  that  Baumgarten,  the  German 
art  critic  ?  "  he  asked,  without  turning  round. 

"  Baumgarten  —  let  me  see  I  I  fancy  I  have  seen  the 
name  to-day."  Lamberti  tried  to  concentrate  his 
attention* 


A  STORY   OF  MODERN   ROME  75 

"You  just  read  it  in  my  aunt's  letter,"  Guido 
answered.  "  You  remember  —  she  asks  if  he  may  come 
to-morrow.     I  wonder  why." 

"To  value  your  property,  of  course,"  replied  Lam- 
berti,  roughly. 

"Do  you  think  so? "  Guido  did  not  seem  at  all  sur- 
prised. "I  daresay.  She  is  quite  capable  of  it.  She 
is  welcome  to  everything  I  possess  if  she  will  only 
leave  me  in  peace.  But  just  now,  when  she  has  evi- 
dently made  up  her  mind  to  marry  me  to  this  new 
heiress,  it  does  not  seem  likely  that  she  would  take 
trouble  to  find  out  what  my  pictures  are  worth,  does  it  ?  " 

"  It  all  depends  on  what  she  thinks  of  the  chances 
that  you  will  marry  or  not." 

"What  do  you  think  of  them,  yourself?"  asked 
Guido,  idly. 

He  was  glad  of  anything  to  talk  about  while  Lam- 
berti  was  in  his  present  mood. 

"  What  a  question !  "  exclaimed  the  latter.  "  How 
should  I  know  whether  you  are  going  to  fall  in  love 
with  the  girl  or  not?  " 

"I  am  half  afraid  I  am,"  said  Guido,  thoughtfully. 

His  man  announced  dinner,  and  the  two  friends 
crossed  the  hall  to  the  little  dining  room,  and  sat  down 
under  the  soft  light  of  the  old-fashioned  olive-oil  lamp 
that  hung  from  the  ceiling.  Everything  on  the  table 
was  old,  worn,  and  spotless.  The  silver  was  all  of  the 
style  of  the  first  Empire,  with  an  interlaced  monogram 
surmounted  by  a  royal  crown.  The  same  device  was 
painted  in  gold  in  the  middle  of  the  plain  white  plates, 


76  CECILIA 

which  were  more  or  less  chipped  at  the  edges.  The 
glasses  and  decanters  w^ere  of  that  heavy  cut  glass,  or- 
namented with  gold  lines,  which  used  to  be  made  in 
Venice  in  the  eighteenth  century.  Some  of  them  were 
chipped,  too,  like  the  plates.  It  had  never  occurred  to 
Guido  to  put  the  whole  service  away  as  a  somewhat 
valuable  collection,  though  he  sometimes  thought  that 
it  was  growing  shabby.  But  he  liked  the  old  things 
which  had  come  to  him  from  the  ex-king,  part  of  the 
furniture  of  a  small  shooting  box  that  had  been 
left  to  him,  and  which  he  had  sold  to  an  Austrian 
Archduke. 

Lamberti  took  a  little  soup  and  swallowed  half  a 
glass  of  white  wine. 

"I  had  an  odd  dream  last  night,"  he  said,  "and  I 
have  had  a  little  adventure  to-day.  I  will  tell  you  by- 
and-by." 

"Just  as  you  like,"  Guido  answered.  "I  hope  the 
adventure  was  not  an  accident  —  you  look  as  if  you  had 
been  badly  shaken." 

"Yes.  I  did  not  know  that  I  could  be  so  nervous. 
You  see,  I  do  not  often  dream.  I  generally  go  to  sleep 
when  I  lay  my  head  upon  the  pillow  and  wake  when  I 
have  slept  seven  hours.  At  sea,  I  always  have  to  be 
called  when  it  is  my  watch.  Yes,  I  have  solid  nerves. 
But  last  night  —  " 

He  stopped,  as  the  man  entered,  bringing  a  dish. 

"  Well  ?  "  enquired  Guido,  who  did  not  suppose  that 
Lamberti  could  have  any  reason  for  not  telling  his 
dream  in  the  presence  of  the  servant. 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  77 

Lamberti  hesitated  a  moment,  and  helped  himself 
before  he  answered. 

"Do  you  believe  in  dreams?  "  he  asked. 

"What  do  you  mean?  Do  I  believe  that  dreams 
come  true?     No.     When  they  do,  it  is  a  coincidence." 

"Yes.  I  suppose  so.  But  this  is  rather  more  than  a 
coincidence.  I  do  not  understand  it  at  all.  After  all, 
I  am  a  perfectly  healthy  man.  It  never  occurred  to  you 
that  my  mind  might  be  unbalanced,  did  it?" 

Guido  looked  at  the  rugged  Roman  head,  the  muscular 
throat,  the  broad  shoulders. 

"No,"  he  answered.  "It  certainly  never  occurred 
to  me." 

"Nor  to  me  either,"  said  Lamberti,  and  he  ate  slowly 
and  thoughtfully. 

"My  friend,"  observed  Guido,  "you  are  just  a  little 
enigmatical  this  evening." 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all !  I  tell  you  that  my  nerves 
are  good.  You  know  something  about  archaeology,  do 
you  not?" 

The  apparently  irrelevant  question  came  after  a  short 
pause. 

"Not  much,"  Guido  answered,  supposing  that  Lam- 
berti wished  to  change  the  subject  on  account  of  the 
servant.     "  What  do  you  want  to  know  ?  " 

"Nothing,"  said  Lamberti.  "The  question  is, 
whether  what  I  dreamt  last  night  was  all  imagination 
or  whether  it  was  a  memory  of  something  I  once  knew 
and  had  forgotten." 

"What  did  you  dream?"    Guido  sipped  his  wine 


78  CECILIA 

and  leaned  back  to  listen,  hoping  that  his  friend  was 
going  to  speak  out  at  last. 

"  Was  the  temple  of  Vesta  in  the  Forum  ?  "  enquired 
Lamberti. 

"Certainly." 

"  But  why  did  they  always  say  that  it  was  the  round 
one  in  front  of  Santa  Maria  in  Cosmedin  ?  I  have  an 
old  bronze  inkstand  that  is  a  model  of  it.  My  mother 
used  to  tell  me  it  was  the  temple  of  Vesta." 

"  People  thought  it  was  —  thirty  years  ago.  There 
is  nothing  left  of  the  temple  but  the  round  mass  of 
masonry  on  which  it  stood.  It  is  between  the  Fountain 
of  Juturna  and  the  house  of  the  Vestals.  I  have  Signor 
Boni's  plans  of  it.     Should  you  like  to  see  them?" 

"Yes  —  presently,"  answered  Lamberti,  with  more 
eagerness  than  Guido  had  expected,  "Is  there  any- 
thing like  a  reconstruction  of  the  temple  or  of  the  house 
—  a  picture  of  one,  I  mean?  " 

"I  think  so,"  said  Guido.  "I  am  sure  there  is  Bal- 
dassare  Peruzzi's  sketch  of  the  temple,  as  it  was  in  his 
day." 

"I  dreamt  that  I  saw  it  last  night,  the  temple  and 
the  house,  and  all  the  Forum  besides,  and  not  in  ruins 
either,  but  just  as  everything  was  in  old  times.  Could 
the  Vestals'  house  have  had  an  upper  story?  Is  that 
possible  ?  " 

"The  archaeologists  are  sure  that  it  had,"  answered 
Guido,  becoming  more  interested.  "  Do  you  mean  to 
say  that  you  dreamt  you  saw  it  with  an  upper  story?" 

"Yes.     And  the  temple  was  something  like  the  one 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  79 

they  used  to  call  Vesta's,  only  it  was  more  ornamented, 
and  the  columns  seemed  very  near  together.  The  round 
wall,  just  within  the  columns,  was  decorated  with 
curious  designs  in  low  relief  —  something  like  a  wheel, 
and  scallops,  and  curved  lines.  It  is  hard  to  describe, 
but  I  can  see  it  all  now." 

Guido  rose  from  his  seat  quickly. 

"I  will  get  the  number  that  has  the  drawing  in  it," 
he  said,  explaining. 

During  the  few  moments  that  passed  while  he  was 
out  of  the  room  Lamberti  sat  staring  at  his  empty  place 
as  fixedly  as  he  had  stared  at  the  dark  line  of  the 
Janiculum  a  few  minutes  earlier.  The  man-servant, 
who  had  been  with  him  at  sea,  watched  him  with  a  sort 
of  grave  sympathy  that  is  peculiarly  Italian.  Then, 
as  if  an  idea  of  great  value  had  struck  him,  he  changed 
Lamberti's  plate,  poured  some  red  wine  into  the  tum- 
bler, and  filled  it  up  with  water.  Then  he  retired  and 
watched  to  see  whether  his  old  master  would  drink. 
But  Lamberti  did  not  move. 

"Here  it  is,"  said  Guido,  entering  the  room  with  a 
large  yellow-covered  pamphlet  open  in  his  hands. 
"Was  it  like  this?" 

As  he  asked  the  question  he  laid  the  pamphlet  on 
the  clean  plate  before  his  friend.  The  pages  were 
opened  at  Baldassare  Peruzzi's  rough  pen-and-ink 
sketch  of  the  temple  of  Vesta;  and  as  Lamberti  looked 
at  it,  his  lids  slowly  contracted,  and  his  features  took 
an  expression  of  mingled  curiosity  and  interest. 

"The  man  who  drew  that  had  seen  what  I  saw," 


80  CECILIA 

he  said  at  last.  "  Did  he  draw  it  from  some  descrip- 
tion?" 

"He  drew  it  on  the  spot,"  answered  Guido.  "The 
temple  was  standing  then.  But  as  for  your  dream,  it 
is  quite  possible  that  you  may  have  seen  this  same 
drawing  in  a  shop  window  at  Spithoever's  or  Loescher's, 
for  instance,  without  noticing  it,  and  that  the  picture 
seemed  quite  new  to  you  when  you  dreamt  it.  That 
is  a  simple  explanation." 

"Very,"  said  Lamberti.  "But  I  saw  the  whole 
Forum." 

"  There  are  big  engravings  of  imaginary  reconstruc- 
tions of  the  Forum,  in  the  booksellers'  windows." 

"  With  the  people  walking  about  ?  The  two  young 
priests  standing  in  the  morning  sun  on  the  steps  of  the 
temple  of  Castor  and  Pollux  ?  The  dirty  market  woman 
trudging  past  the  corner  of  the  Vestals'  house  with  a 
basket  of  vegetables  on  her  head?  The  door  slave 
sweeping  the  threshold  of  the  Regia  with  a  green 
broom?" 

"I  thought  you  knew  nothing  about  the  Forum," 
said  Guido,  curiously.  "  How  do  you  come  to  know  of 
the  Regia?" 

"Did  I  say  Regia?  I  daresay  —  the  name  came  to 
my  lips." 

" Somebody  has  hypnotised  you,"  said  Guido.  "  You 
are  repeating  things  you  have  heard  in  your  sleep." 

"No.  I  am  describing  things  I  saw  in  my  sleep. 
Am  I  the  sort  of  man  who  is  easily  hypnotised?  I 
have  let  men  try  it  once  or  twice.     We  were  all  inter- 


A  STOBlt    OF  MODEEJ^r  BOME  81 

ested  in  hjrpnotism  on  my  last  ship,  and  the  surgeon 
made  some  curious  experiments  with  a  lad  who  went 
to  sleep  easily.  But  last  night  I  was  at  home,  alone, 
in  my  own  room,  in  bed,  and  I  dreamt." 

Guido  shrugged  his  shoulders  a  little  indifferently. 

"  There  must  be  some  explanation,"  he  said.  "  What 
else  did  you  dream  ?  " 

Lamberti's  lids  drooped  as  if  he  were  concentrating 
his  attention  on  the  remembered  vision. 

"I  dreamt,"  he  said,  "that  I  saw  a  veiled  woman  in 
white  come  out  of  the  temple  door  straight  into  the 
sunlight,  and  though  I  could  not  see  the  face,  I  knew 
who  she  was.  She  went  down  the  steps  and  then  up 
the  others  to  the  house  of  the  Vestals,  and  entered  in 
without  looking  back.  I  followed  her.  The  door  was 
open,  and  there  was  no  one  to  stop  me." 

" That  is  very  improbable,"  observed  Guido.  "  There 
must  have  always  been  a  slave  at  the  door." 

"I  went  in,"  continued  Lamberti  without  heeding 
the  interruption,  "and  she  was  standing  beside  one  of 
the  pillars,  a  little  way  from  the  door.  She  had  one 
hand  on  the  column,  and  she  was  facing  the  sun;  her 
veil  was  thrown  back  and  the  light  shone  through  her 
hair.  I  came  nearer,  very  softly.  She  knew  that  I 
was  there  and  was  not  afraid.  When  I  was  close  to 
her  she  turned  her  face  to  mine.  Then  I  took  her  in 
my  arms  and  kissed  her,  and  she  did  not  resist." 

Guido  smiled  gravely. 

"  And  she  turnfed  out  to  be  some  one  you  know  in 
real  life,  I  suppose,"  he  said. 


82  CECILIA 

"Yes,"  answered  Lamberti.  "Some  one  I  know  — 
slightly." 

"  Beautiful,  of  course.     Fair  or  dark  ?  " 

"You  need  not  try  to  guess,"  Lamberti  said.  "I 
shall  not  tell  you.     My  head  went  round,  and  I  woke." 

"  Very  well.  But  is  it  this  absurd  dream  that  has 
made  you  so  nervous  ?  " 

"No.     Something  happened  to  me  to-day." 

Lamberti  ate  a  few  mouthfuls  in  silence,  before  he 
went  on. 

"  I  daresay  I  might  have  invented  some  explanation 
of  the  dream,"  he  said  at  last.  "But  it  only  made  me 
want  to  see  the  place.  I  never  cared  for  those  things, 
you  know.  I  had  never  gone  down  into  the  Forum  in 
my  life  —  why  should  I?     I  went  there  this  morning." 

"  And  you  could  not  find  anything  of  what  you  had 
seen,  of  course." 

"  I  took  one  of  those  guides  who  hang  about  the  en- 
trance waiting  for  foreigners.  He  showed  me  where 
the  temple  had  been,  and  the  house,  and  the  temple  of 
Castor  and  Pollux.  I  did  not  believe  him  implicitly, 
but  the  ruins  were  in  the  right  places.  Then  I  walked 
up  a  bridge  of  boards  to  the  house  of  the  Vestals,  and 
went  in." 

"But  there  was  no  lady." 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Lamberti,  and  his  eyes  glit- 
tered oddly,  "the  lady  was  there." 

"  The  same  one  whom  you  had  seen  in  your  dream  ?  " 

"  The  same.  She  was  standing  facing  the  sun,  for  it 
was  still  early,  and  one  of  her  hands  was  resting  against 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  56 

the  brick  pillar,  just  as  it  had  rested  against  the 
column." 

"That  is  certainly  very  extraordinary,"  said  Guido, 
his  tone  changing.  Then  he  seemed  about  to  speak 
again,  but  checked  himself. 

Lamberti  rested  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  his  chin 
on  his  folded  hands,  and  looked  into  his  friend's  eyes 
in  silence.  His  own  face  had  grown  perceptibly  paler 
in  the  last  few  minutes. 

"Guido,"  he  said,  after  what  seemed  a  long  pause, 
"  you  were  going  to  ask  what  happened  next.  I  do  not 
know  what  you  thought,  nor  what  stopped  you,  for 
between  you  and  me  there  is  no  such  thing  as  indiscre- 
tion, and,  besides,  you  will  never  know  who  the  lady 
was." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  guess.  Do  not  say  anything  that 
could  help  me." 

"  Of  course  not.  Any  woman  you  know  might  have 
taken  it  into  her  head  to  go  to  the  Forum  this  morning. " 

"Certainly." 

"This  is  what  happened.  I  stood  perfectly  still  in 
surprise.  She  may  have  heard  my  footstep  or  not;  she 
knew  some  one  was  behind  her.  Then  she  slowly 
turned  her  head  till  we  could  see  each  other's  faces." 

He  paused  again,  and  passed  one  hand  lightly  over 
his  eyes. 

"Yes,"  said  Guido,  "I  suppose  I  can  guess  what  is 
coming." 

"  No !  "  Lamberti  cried,  in  such  a  tone  that  the  other 
started,    "  You  cannot  guess.    We  looked  at  each  other. 


84  CECILIA 

It  seemed  a  very  long  time  —  two  or  three  minutes  at 
least  —  as  if  we  were  both  paralysed.  Though  we 
recognised  each  other  perfectly  well,  we  could  neither 
of  us  speak.  Then  it  seemed  to  me  that  something  I 
could  not  resist  was  drawing  me  towards  her,  but  I  am 
sure  I  did  not  really  move  the  hundredth  part  of  a  step. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  look  in  her  face." 

Another  pause,  not  long,  but  strangely  breathless. 

"I  have  seen  men  badly  frightened  in  battle,"  Lam- 
berti  went  on.  "  The  cheeks  get  hollow  all  at  once,  the 
eyes  are  wide  open,  with  black  rings  round  them,  the 
face  turns  a  greenish  grey,  and  the  sweat  runs  down 
the  forehead  into  the  eyebrows.  Men  totter  with  fear, 
too,  as  if  their  joints  were  unstrung.  But  I  never  saw 
a  woman  really  terrified  before.  There  was  a  sort  of 
awful  tension  of  all  her  features,  as  though  they  were 
suddenly  made  brittle,  like  beautiful  glass,  and  were 
going  to  shiver  into  fragments.  And  her  eyes  had  no 
visible  pupils  —  her  lips  turned  violet.  I  remember 
every  detail.  Then,  without  warning,  she  shrieked 
and  staggered  backwards ;  and  she  turned  as  I  moved 
to  catch  her,  and  she  ran  like  a  deer,  straight  up  the 
court,  past  those  basins  they  have  excavated,  and  up 
two  or  three  steps,  to  the  dark  rooms  at  the  other  end." 

"And  what  did  you  do?"  asked  Guido,  wondering. 

"My  dear  fellow,  I  turned  and  went  back  as  fast 
as  I  could,  without  exactly  running,  and  I  found  the 
guide  looking  for  me  below  the  temple,  for  he  had  not 
seen  me  go  into  the  Vestals'  house.  What  else  was 
there  to  be  done  ?  " 


A  STORY  OF  MODERN  ROME  86 

"Nothing,  I  suppose.  You  could  not  pursue  a  lady 
who  shrieked  with  fear  and  ran  away  from  you.  What 
a  strange  story!     You  say  you  only  know  her  slightly." 

"Literally,  very  slightly,"  answered  Lamberti. 

He  had  become  fluent,  telling  his  story  almost  excit- 
edly. He  now  relapsed  into  his  former  mood,  and 
stared  at  the  pamphlet  before  him  a  moment,  before 
shutting  it  and  putting  it  away  from  him. 

"  It  is  like  all  those  things  —  perfectly  unaccount- 
able, except  on  a  theory  of  coincidence,"  said  Guido, 
at  last.     "Will  you  have  any  cheese?  " 

Lamberti  roused  himself  and  saw  the  servant  at  his 
elbow. 

"No,  thank  you.  I  forgot  one  thing.  Just  as  I 
awoke  from  that  dream  last  night,  I  heard  the  door  of 
my  room  softly  closed." 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  the  matter?"  enquired 
Guido,  carelessly. 

"  Nothing,  except  that  the  door  was  locked.  I  always 
lock  my  door.  I  first  fell  into  the  habit  when  I  was 
travelling,  for  I  sleep  so  soundly  that  in  a  hotel  any 
one  might  come  in  and  steal  my  things.  I  should 
never  wake.     So  I  turn  the  key  before  going  to  bed." 

"You  may  have  forgotten  to  do  it  last  night,"  sug- 
gested Guido. 

"No.  I  got  up  at  once,  and  the  key  was  turned. 
No  one  could  have  come  in." 

"  A  mouse,  then,"  said  Guido,  rather  contemptuously. 


CHAPTER   V 

Cecilia  Palladio  was  very  much  ashamed  of  hav- 
ing uttered  a  cry  of  terror  at  the  sight  of  Lamberti,  and 
still  more  of  having  run  away  from  him  like  a  fright- 
ened child.  To  him  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  really 
shrieked  with  fear,  whereas  she  fancied  that  she  had 
scarcely  found  voice  enough  to  utter  an  incoherent  ex- 
clamation. The  truth  lay  somewhere  between  the  two 
impressions,  but  Cecilia  now  felt  that  she  could  easily 
have  accounted  for  being  startled  into  crying  out,  but 
that  it  would  always  be  impossible  to  explain  her  flight. 
She  had  run  the  whole  length  of  the  Court,  which  must 
be  fifty  yards  long,  before  realising  what  she  was  doing, 
and  had  not  paused  for  breath  till  she  was  out  of  his 
sight  and  within  the  second  of  the  three  rooms  on  the 
left.  There  were  no  gates  to  the  rooms  then,  as  there 
are  now,  and  she  could  not  have  given  any  reason  for 
her  entering  the  second  instead  of  the  first,  which  was 
the  nearest.     The  choice  was  instinctive. 

She  certainly  had  not  gone  there  to  join  the  elderly 
woman  servant  who  had  come  to  the  Forum  with  her. 
That  excellent  and  obedient  person  was  waiting  where 
Cecilia  had  made  her  sit  down,  not  far  from  the  en- 
trance to  the  Forum,  and  would  not  move  till  her  mis- 

86 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  87 

tress  returned.  The  young  girl  hated  to  be  followed 
about  and  protected  at  every  step,  especially  by  a  ser- 
vant, who  could  have  no  real  understanding  of  what 
she  saw. 

"  I  shall  only  be  seen  by  foreigners  and  Cook's  Tour- 
ists," she  had  said,  "and  they  do  not  count  as  human 
beings  at  all!  " 

Therefore  the  middle-aged  Petersen,  who  was  a  Ger- 
man, and  therefore  a  species  of  foreigner  herself,  had 
meekly  sat  down  upon  the  comparatively  comfortable 
stone  which  Cecilia  had  selected  for  her,  and  which 
was  one  of  the  steps  of  the  Julian  Basilica.  She  was 
called  Frau  Petersen,  Mrs.  Petersen,  or  Madame  Peter- 
sen, according  to  circumstances,  by  the  servants  of 
different  nationalities  who  were  successively  in  the 
employment  of  the  Countess  Fortiguerra,  for  she  was 
a  superior  woman  and  the  widow  of  a  paymaster  in  the 
Bavarian  army,  and  so  eminently  respectable  and  well 
educated  that  she  had  more  than  once  been  taken  for 
Cecilia's  governess. 

Petersen  was  excessively  near-sighted,  but  her  nose 
was  not  adapted  by  its  nature  and  position  for  wearing 
eyeglasses ;  for  it  was  not  only  a  flat  nose  without  any- 
thing like  a  prominent  bridge  to  it,  but  it  was  placed 
uncommonly  low  in  her  face,  so  that  a  pair  of  eye- 
glasses pinched  upon  it  would  have  found  themselves 
in  the  region  of  Petersen's  cheek-bones.  Even  when 
she  wore  spectacles,  they  were  always  slipping  down, 
which  was  a  great  nuisance ;  so  she  resigned  herself  to 
seeing  less  than  other  people,  except  when  something 


88  CECILIA 

interested  her  enough  to  make  the  discomfort  of  glasses 
worth  enduring. 

This  sufficiently  explains  why  she  noticed  nothing 
unusual  in  Cecilia's  looks  when  the  latter  came  back 
to  her,  pale  and  disturbed;  and  she  had  not  heard  her 
mistress's  faint  cry,  the  distance  being  too  great  for 
that,  not  to  mention  the  fact  that  the  huge  ruins  inter- 
cepted the  sound.  Cecilia  was  glad  of  that,  as  she 
drove  home  with  Petersen. 

"Signer  Lamberti  has  called,"  said  the  Countess 
FortigueiTa  the  next  day  at  luncheon,  "  I  see  by  his 
card  that  he  is  in  the  Navy.  You  know  he  is  one  of  the 
Marchese  Lamberti's  sons.    Shall  we  ask  him  to  dinner?" 

"Did  you  like  him?"  enquired  Cecilia,  evasively. 

"He  is  not  very  good-looking,"  observed  the  Coun- 
tess, whose  judgment  of  unknown  people  always  began 
with  their  appearance,  and  often  penetrated  no  farther. 
"But  he  maybe  intelligent,  for  all  that,"  she  added, 
as  a  concession. 

"Yes,"  said  Cecilia,  thoughtfully,  "perhaps." 

"  I  think  we  might  ask  him  to  dinner,  then,"  answered 
the  Countess,  as  if  she  had  given  an  excellent  reason 
for  doing  so. 

"Is  it  not  rather  early,  considering  that  we  have 
only  met  him  once  ?  "  Cecilia  ventured  to  ask. 

"  I  used  to  know  his  mother  very  well,  though  she 
was  older  than  I.  It  is  pleasant  to  find  that  he  is  so 
intimate  with  Signor  d'Este.  We  might  ask  them 
together." 

"After  the  garden  party,"  suggested  Cecilia.     "Of 


A  STORY   OF  MODERN   BOMB  89 

course,  as  you  and  the  Marchesa  were  great  friends, 
that  is  a  reason  for  asking  the  other,  but  Signor  d'Este 
—  -  really !  It  would  positively  be  throwing  me  at  his 
head,  mother  1  '* 

"He  expects  it,  my  dear,"  answered  the  Countess, 
with  more  precision  than  tact.  "I  mean,' she  added 
hastily,  "  I  mean,  that  is,  I  did  not  mean  —  '* 

Cecilia  laughed. 

"  Oh  yes,  you  did,  mother  I  You  meant  exactly  that, 
you  know.  You  and  that  dreadful  old  Princess  have 
made  up  your  minds  that  I  am  to  marry  him,  and  noth- 
ing else  matters,  does  it  ?  " 

"Well,"  said  the  Countess,  without  any  perceptible 
hesitation,  "I  cannot  help  hoping  that  you  will  con- 
sent, for  I  should  like  the  match  very  much." 

She  knew  that  it  was  always  better  to  be  quite  frank 
with  her  daughter ;  and  even  if  she  had  thought  other- 
wise, she  could  never  have  succeeded  in  being  diplo- 
matic with  her.  While  her  second  husband  had  been 
alive,  her  position  as  an  ambassadress  had  obliged  her  to 
be  tactful  in  the  world,  and  even  occasionally  to  say 
things  which  she  had  some  difficulty  in  believing, 
being  a  very  simple  soul;  but  with  Cecilia  she  was 
quite  unable  to  conceal  her  thoughts  for  five  minutes. 
If  the  girl  loved  her  mother,  and  she  really  did,  it  was 
largely  because  her  mother  was  so  perfectly  truthful. 
Cynical  people  called  her  helplessly  honest,  and  said 
that  her  veracity  would  have  amounted  to  a  disease  of 
the  mind  if  she  had  possessed  any;  but  that  since  she 
did  not,  it  was  probably  a  form  of  degeneration,  because 


90  ohcilia' 

all  perfectly  healthy  human  beings  lied  naturally. 
David  had  said  in  his  heart  that  all  men  were  liars,  and 
his  experience  of  men,  and  of  women,  too,  was  worth 
considering. 

"Yes,"  Cecilia  said,  after  a  thoughtful  pause,  "I 
know  that  you  wish  me  to  marry  Signor  d'Este,  and  I 
have  not  refused  to  think  of  it.  But  I  have  not  prom- 
ised anything,  either,  and  I  do  not  like  to  feel  that  he 
expects  me  to  be  thrust  upon  him  at  every  turn,  till  he 
is  obliged  to  offer  himself  as  the  only  way  of  escaping 
the  persecution." 

"I  wish  you  would  not  express  it  in  that  way!  " 

The  Countess  sighed  and  looked  at  her  daughter 
with  a  sort  of  half-comical  and  loving  hopelessness  in 
her  eyes  —  as  a  faithful  dog  might  look  at  his  master 
who,  seeming  to  be  hungry,  would  refuse  to  steal  food 
that  was  within  reach.  The  dog  would  try  to  lead  the 
man  to  the  bread,  the  man  would  gently  resist;  each 
would  be  obeying  the  dictation  of  his  own  conscience 
—  the  man  would  know  that  he  could  never  explain 
his  moral  position  to  the  dog,  and  the  dog  would  feel 
that  he  could  never  understand  the  man.  Yet  the 
affection  between  the  two  would  not  be  in  the  least 
diminished. 

On  the  next  evening  Cecilia  found  herself  next  to 
Guido  d'Este  at  dinner.  Though  she  was  not  sup- 
posed to  make  her  formal  appearance  in  society  before 
the  garden  party,  the  Countess's  many  old  friends, 
some  of  whom  had  more  or  less  impecunious  sons,  were 
anxious  to  welcome  her  to  Rome,  and  asked  her  to 


A   STOBY    OF   MODEEN   EOME  M. 

small  dinners  with  her  mother.  Guido  had  arrived 
late,  and  had  not  been  able  to  speak  to  her  till  he  was 
told  by  their  host  that  he  was  to  take  her  in.  It  was 
quite  natural  that  he  should,  for,  in  spite  of  his  birth, 
he  was  only  plain  Signor  d'Este,  and  was  not  entitled 
to  any  sort  of  precedence  in  a  society  which  is,  if  any- 
thing, overcareful  in  such  matters. 

Neither  spoke  as  they  walked  through  the  rooms, 
near  the  end  of  the  small  procession.  Guido  glanced 
at  the  young  girl,  who  knew  that  he  did,  but  paid  no 
attention.  He  thought  her  rather  pale,  and  there  was 
no  light  in  her  eyes.  Her  hand  lay  like  gossamer  on 
his  arm,  so  lightly  that  he  could  not  feel  it;  but  he  was 
aware  of  her  perfectly  graceful  motion  as  she  walked. 

"I  suppose  this  was  predestined,"  he  said,  as  soon 
as  the  rest  of  the  guests  were  talking. 

She  glanced  at  him  quickly  now,  her  head  bent  rather 
low,  her  eyebrows  arching  higher  than  usual.  He  was 
not  sure  whether  the  little  irregularity  of  her  upper  lip 
was  accentuated  by  amusement,  or  by  a  touch  of  scorn. 

"Is  it? "  she  asked.  "Do  you  happen  to  know  that 
it  was  arranged?  " 

It  was  amusement,  then,  and  not  scorn.  They  un- 
derstood each  other,  and  the  ice  was  in  no  need  of  be- 
ing broken  again. 

"No,"  Guido  answered  with  a  smile.  Then  his 
voice  grew  suddenly  low  and  earnest.  "Will  you 
please  believe  that  if  I  had  been  told  beforehand  that 
I  was  asked  in  order  to  sit  next  to  you,  I  would  not 
have  come  ?  " 


92  CECILIA 

Cecilia  laughed  lightly. 

"I  believe  you,  and  I  understand,"  she  answered. 
"  But  how  it  sounds !  If  you  had  known  that  you  were 
to  sit  next  to  me,  nothing  would  have  induced  you  to 
come  I " 

From  her  place  next  the  master  of  the  house,  the 
Countess  Fortiguerra  looked  at  them,  and  was  pleased 
to  see  that  they  were  already  on  good  terms. 

"Thank  you,"  Cecilia  added  in  a  quiet  voice,  and 
gravely.  "  Besides,"  she  continued,  "  there  is  no  reason 
in  the  world  why  we  should  not  be  good  friends,  is 
there?" 

She  looked  full  at  him  now,  without  a  smile,  and  he 
realised  for  the  first  time  how  very  young  she  was.  A 
married  woman  with  an  instinct  for  flirtation  might 
have  made  the  speech,  but  a  girl  older  than  Cecilia 
would  have  known  that  it  might  be  misunderstood. 
Guido  answered  her  look  with  one  in  which  doubt  did 
not  keep  the  upper  hand  more  than  a  single  second. 

"  There  is  no  reason  whatever  why  we  should  not  be 
the  best  of  friends,"  he  answered,  in  a  tone  as  low  as 
her  own.  "Perhaps  I  may  be  of  service  to  you.  I 
hope  so.     Besides,  I  am  made  for  friendship !  " 

He  laughed  rather  carelessly  as  he  spoke  the  last 
words,  and  glanced  round  the  table  to  see  whether  any- 
body was  watching  him.  He  met  the  Countess  Forti- 
guerra's  approving  glance. 

"  Why  do  you  laugh  at  friendship  ?  "  asked  Cecilia, 
not  quite  pleased. 

"  I  do  not  laugh  at  friendship  at  all,"  Guido  answered. 


A   STORY   OF  MODERK   ROME  93 

"  I  laugh  in  order  that  people  may  see  me  and  hear  me. 
This  is  the  first  service  I  can  render  you,  to  be  natural 
and  unconcerned,  as  I  generally  am.  If  I  behaved  in 
any  unusual  way  —  if  I  were  too  grave,  or  too  much 
interested  —  you  understand!  " 

"Yes.     You  are  thoughtful.     Thank  you." 

There  was  a  little  pause,  during  which  a  luxuriant 
lady  in  green,  who  sat  on  Guido's  other  side,  deter- 
mined to  attract  his  attention,  and  spoke  to  him;  but 
before  he  could  answer,  some  one  opposite  asked  her 
a  question  about  dress,  which  was  intensely  interesting 
to  her,  because  she  dressed  abominably.  She  promptly 
fell  into  the  snare  which  had  been  set  for  her  with  the 
evil  intention  of  leading  her  on  to  talk  foolishly.  She 
followed  at  once,  and  Guido  was  free  again. 

"Now  that  we  are  friends,"  he  said  to  Cecilia,  "may 
I  ask  you  a  friendly  question?  " 

"Ask  me  anything  you  like,"  she  answered,  and  her 
innocent  eyes  promised  him  the  truth. 

"  Were  you  told  anything,  before  we  met  at  my  aunt's 
the  other  day?" 

"Not  a  word!     And  you?" 

"Nothing,"  he  replied.  "I  remember  that  on  that 
very  afternoon  —  "  he  stopped  short. 

"What?" 

"You  may  not  like  what  I  was  going  to  say." 

"  I  shall,  if  it  is  true,  and  if  you  have  a  good  reason 
for  saying  it." 

"  Lamberti  and  I  were  together,  talking,  and  I  said 
that  nothing  would  ever  induce  me  to  marry  an  heiress, 


94  CECILIA 

unless  it  were  to  save  my  father  or  mother  from  ruin. 
As  that  can  never  happen,  all  heiresses  are  perfectly 
safe  from  me  1     Do  you  mind  my  having  said  that  ?  " 

"No.     I  am  sure  you  were  in  earnest." 

A  shadow  had  crossed  her  face  at  the  mention  of 
Lamberti's  name. 

"You  do  not  like  my  friend,"  he  said,  and  as  he 
spoke,  the  shadow  came  again  and  deepened. 

"  How  can  I  like  him  or  dislike  him  ?  I  hardly  know 
him." 

She  felt  very  uncomfortable,  for  it  would  have  been 
quite  natural  that  Lamberti  should  have  spoken  to 
Guido  of  her  strange  behaviour  in  the  Forum.  Guido 
answered  that  one  often  liked  or  disliked  people  at  first 
sight. 

"  I  think  that  you  and  I  liked  each  other  as  soon  as 
we  met,"  he  concluded. 

"Yes,"  Cecilia  answered,  after  a  little  thought.  "I 
am  sure  we  did.  Tell  me,  what  makes  you  think  that 
I  dislike  your  friend?  I  should  be  very  sorry  if  he 
thought  I  did." 

"  When  I  first  spoke  of  him  a  few  moments  ago,  your 
expression  changed,  and  when  I  referred  to  him  again, 
you  frowned." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  Are  you  sure  that  is  the  only  reason 
for  your  opinion  ?  " 

Guido  laughed  a  little. 

"  What  other  reason  could  I  have  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Do 
not  take  it  so  seriously!  " 

"He  might  have  told  you  that  he  himself  had  the 
impression  ~  " 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  95 

*'  He  has  hardly  mentioned  your  name  since  we  both 
met  you,"  Guido  answered. 

It  was  a  relief  to  know  that  Lamberti  had  not  spoken 
of  having  met  her  unexpectedly,  and  of  her  cry,  and  of 
her  flight.  Yet  somehow  she  had  already  been  sure 
that  he  had  kept  the  matter  to  himself.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  Guido  had  never  thought  of  her,  even  in  the 
most  passing  way,  as  the  possible  heroine  of  the  adven- 
ture in  the  Forum.  The  story  had  interested  him,  but 
the  personality  of  the  lady  did  not;  and,  moreover, 
from  the  way  in  which  Lamberti  had  spoken,  Guido 
had  very  naturally  supposed  her  to  be  a  married  woman, 
for  it  would  not  have  occurred  to  him  that  a  young  girl 
could  be  strolling  among  the  ruins  quite  alone. 

Cecilia  felt  relieved,  and  yet,  at  the  same  time,  she 
felt  a  little  girlish  disappointment  at  the  thought  that 
Lamberti  had  hardly  ever  spoken  of  her  to  his  most 
intimate  friend,  for  she  was  quite  sure  that  Guido  told 
her  the  exact  truth.  She  was  angry  with  herself  for 
being  disappointed,  too.  The  man's  face  had  haunted 
her  so  long  in  half -waking  dreams ;  or  at  least,  a  face 
exactly  like  his,  which,  the  last  time,  had  turned  into 
his  without  doubt.  Yet  she  had  evidently  made  no 
impression  upon  him,  until  she  had  made  a  very  bad 
one,  the  other  day.  She  wondered  whether  he  thought 
she  was  a  little  mad.  She  was  afraid  of  meeting  him 
wherever  she  went,  and  yet  she  now  wished  he  were  at 
the  table,  in  order  that  she  might  prove  to  him  that 
she  was  not  only  sane,  but  very  clever.  She  knew 
that  she  wished  it,  and  for  a  few  moments  she  did  not 


96  CECILIA 

hear  what  Guido  was  saying,  but  gazed  absently  at  the 
flowers  on  the  table,  unconsciously  hoping  that  she 
might  see  them  turn  into  the  face  she  feared;  but  that 
did  not  happen. 

Guido  talked  on,  till  he  saw  that  she  was  not  listen- 
ing, and  then  he  was  silent,  and  only  glanced  at  her 
from  time  to  time  while  he  heard  in  his  ears  the  cackling 
of  the  vivid  lady  in  green.  There  was  going  to  be  a 
change  in  the  destinies  of  womankind,  and  everybody 
was  to  be  perfectly  frightful  for  ever  afterwards.  To 
be  plain,  the  sleeves  "they"  were  wearing  now  were  to 
be  altogether  given  up.  "  They  "  had  begun  to  wear 
the  new  ones  already  in  Paris.  R^jane  had  worn  them 
in  her  new  piece,  and  of  course  that  meant  an  imminent 
and  universal  change.  And  as  for  the  way  the  skirts 
were  to  be  made,  it  was  positively  indecent.  R^jane 
was  far  too  much  of  a  lady  to  wear  one,  of  course,  but 
one  could  see  what  was  coming.  Here  some  one  ob- 
served that  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all !  "  cried  the  lady  in  green. 
"I  mean  behind." 

"  How  long  shall  you  stay  in  Rome  ?  "  Guido  asked, . 
to  see  whether  Cecilia  would  hear  him  now. 

"  Always, "  she  answered.     "  For  the  rest  of  my  life. " 

"  I  am  glad  of  that.  But  I  meant  to  ask  how  late 
you  intended  to  stay  this  year?  " 

"I  should  like  to  spend  the  summer  here.'* 

"It  is  the  pleasantest  time,"  Guido  said. 

"Is  it?  Or  are  you  only  saying  that  in  order  to 
agree  with   me?    You  need  not,  you  know.     I   like 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  9T 

people  who  have  their  own  opinions,  and  are  full  of 
prejudices,  and  try  to  force  them  upon  everybody, 
whether  they  are  good  for  every  one  or  not!  " 

"  I  am  afraid  I  shall  not  please  you,  then.  I  have  no 
prejudices  to  speak  of,  and  my  opinions  are  worth  so 
little  that  I  never  hesitate  to  change  them." 

"But  you  do  not  look  at  all  feeble-minded,"  said 
Cecilia,  innocently  studying  his  face. 

"  Thank  you  I  "  Guido  laughed.  "  You  are  ador- 
able !  "  he  added  rather  flippantly. 

"  Is  that  your  opinion  ?  "  asked  the  young  girl,  smil- 
ing, too,  as  if  she  were  pleased. 

"Yes.     That  is  my  firm  opinion.     Do  you  object 
to  it?" 

"  Oh  no  I  "  Cecilia  answered,  still  smiling  sweetly. 
"  You  have  just  told  me  that  your  opinions  are  worth 
so  little  that  you  never  hesitate  to  change  them.  So 
why  in  the  world  should  I  object  to  any  of  them?  " 

"Exactly,"  said  Guido,  unmoved.  "Why  should 
you  ?  Especially  as  this  particular  one  gives  me  so 
much  pleasure  while  it  lasts." 

"  It  will  not  last  long,  I  daresay.  Do  you  know  that 
you  are  not  at  all  dull?  " 

"No  one  could  be  in  your  company." 

"  That  is  the  first  dull  thing  you  have  said  this  even- 
ing," Cecilia  answered,  to  see  what  he  would  say. 

"Shall  it  be  the  last?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  please." 

There  was  a  little  wilful  command  in  the  tone  that 
Guido  liked.     He  felt  her  presence  in  a  way  he  did  not 


y»  CECILIA 

remember  to  have  felt  that  of  any  woman,  and  in  the 
atmosphere  of  her  own  in  which  she  seemed  to  live  he 
breathed  as  one  does  in  some  very  high  places,  less 
easily,  perhaps,  but  with  conscious  pleasure  in  drawing 
breath.  He  could  not  have  described  his  sensations  in 
those  first  meetings  with  her,  and  he  could  have  ana- 
lysed them  less.  One  might  as  well  seek  the  form  and 
perfume  of  the  flower  in  the  first  tender  shoot  that 
thrusts  up  its  joy  of  living  out  of  the  mystery  of  the 
dull  brown  earth.  Yet  he  knew  well  enough  that 
something  was  beginning  to  grow  in  him  which  had 
not  begun,  and  grown,  and  perished  before. 

Many  times  he  had  talked  with  women  famous  for 
their  beauty,  or  for  their  charm,  or  for  their  wit,  and 
he  himself  had  said  clever  things  which  he  had  remem- 
bered with  a  little  vanity  or  had  forgotten  with  regret, 
and  had  turned  compliments  in  many  manners,  guess- 
ing at  the  taste  of  her  who  sat  beside  him,  wishing  to 
please  her,  and  wishing  even  more  to  find  some  general 
key  to  women's  thought,  some  universal  explanation  of 
their  ways,  some  logical  solution  of  their  seemingly 
inconsequent  actions.  His  mind  was  of  the  sort  that 
is  satisfied  by  suspended  judgment,  that  dreads  the 
chillingly  triumphant  phrase  of  reason,  "  which  was  to 
be  proved,"  as  much  as  the  despairing  tone  of  a  reduc- 
tion to  the  impossible.  He  loved  problems  that  could 
not  be  solved  easily,  if  at  all,  because  he  could  think 
of  them  continually  in  a  hundred  new  and  different 
ways.  He  hated  equally  a  final  affirmation  past  ap- 
peal, and  an  ultimate  negation  which  might  make  his 


A   STORY    OF   MODERN   ROME  99 

thoughts  ridiculous  in  his  own  eyes.  A  quiet  sus- 
pense was  his  natural  state  of  equilibrium.  Anything 
might  be,  or  might  not  be,  and  decision  was  hateful; 
it  was  delicious  to  float  on  the  calm  waters  of  medita- 
tive indifference,  between  the  giant  rocks,  hope  and 
despair,  in  the  straits  that  lead  the  sea  of  life  to  the 
ocean  of  eternity. 

He  knew  that  he  was  the  end  of  a  race  that  had 
reigned  and  could  never  reign  again.  It  was  better 
that  the  end  should  be  a  question  than  a  hope  deceived, 
or  a  cry  of  impotent  hatred  uttered  against  Something 
which  might  not  exist  after  all.  If  he  had  a  philosophy 
it  was  that,  and  nothing  more ;  and  though  it  was  not 
much,  it  had  helped  him  to  live  without  much  pain  and 
almost  always  with  a  certain  dreamy,  intellectual,  won- 
dering pleasure  in  his  own  thoughts.  Sometimes  he 
was  irritated  out  of  that  state  by  the  demands  and 
doings  of  the  Princess  Anatolic,  as  on  the  day  when  he 
and  his  friend  had  talked  in  the  garden  beyond  the 
river;  and  then  he  spoke  of  ending  all  at  a  stroke,  and 
almost  believed  that  he  might  do  it;  and  he  envied 
Lamberti  his  love  of  life  and  action.  But  such  moods 
soon  passed  and  left  him  himself  again,  so  that  he  mar- 
velled how  he  could  ever  have  been  so  much  moved. 
It  was  always  the  same,  in  the  end,  but  such  as  it  was 
the  world  was  not  a  bad  world  for  him. 

Here  was  something  different  from  all  the  past,  and 
it  had  begun  without  warning,  and  was  growing  against 
his  will,  because  it  fed  on  that  with  which  his  will  had 
nothing  to  do.     There  is  no  fatalism  like  that  of  the 


100  CECILIA 

indifferent  man  who  believes  in  nothing,  not  even  in 
himself,  and  who  admits  nothing  to  be  positive  except 
crime  and  dishonour.  Why  should  he  not  fall  in  love 
with  Cecilia  Palladio,  since  he  had  previously  stated 
to  himself,  to  her,  and  to  his  trusted  friend,  that  noth- 
ing could  induce  him  to  marry  her?  It  was  quite  clear 
from  the  first  that  she,  on  her  side,  would  never  fall  in 
love  with  him.  He  looked  upon  that  as  altogether  out 
of  the  question,  and  perhaps  with  reason.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  had  not  the  slightest  faith  in  the  lasting  nature 
of  anything  he  might  feel,  and  therefore  he  was  not 
afraid  of  consequences,  which  rarely  indeed  frighten 
a  man  who  is  doing  what  he  likes.  It  is  more  gen- 
erally the  woman  that  thinks  of  them,  and  points  them 
out  because  "  there  is  still  time !  "  She  also  heaps  her 
scorn  upon  the  man  if  he  is  wise  enough  to  agree  with 
her;  but  that  is  a  detail,  and  perhaps  it  ought  not  to 
be  mentioned. 

As  for  the  fact  that  he  was  beginning  to  be  in  love, 
Guido  no  longer  doubted  it.  The  pleasure  he  felt  in 
saying  to  Cecilia  things  of  even  less  than  average  con- 
versational merit  was  proof  enough  that  it  was  not  only 
what  he  said  that  interested  him.  When  a  man  of 
ordinary  assurance  wishes  to  shine  in  the  eyes  of  a 
woman,  he  generally  succeeds  at  least  in  shining  in 
his  own. 

Guido  was  not  any  more  self-conscious  than  most 
people,  and  he  was  certainly  not  more  diffident  of  his 
own  gifts,  which  he  could  judge  impartially  because 
he  attached  little  importance  to  what  they  might  bring 


A   STORY   OF   MODEB^if   ROME  101 

Aim.  But  the  categorical  connfiaiid  ,tosay  notL Jng.  dull 
made  it  quite  impossible  to  say  anything  witty,  and 
the  conversation  languished  a  little  and  then  broke  off. 

It  was  past  ten  o'clock  when  Guido  again  found  a 
chance  of  speaking  to  Cecilia.  He  had  looked  at  her 
more  often  than  he  knew,  after  dinner,  and  had  given 
rather  vague  answers  to  one  or  two  people  who  had 
spoken  to  him.  He  had  moved  about  the  great  room 
idly,  looking  at  the  familiar  old  portraits,  and  at  objects 
he  had  known  in  the  same  places  for  years.  He  had 
smoked  a  cigarette,  standing  with  his  host,  while  the 
latter  talked  to  him  about  the  Etruscan  tomb  he  had 
just  discovered  on  his  place,  and  he  had  nodded  pleas- 
antly to  the  sound  of  the  old  gentleman's  voice  without 
hearing  a  word.  Then  he  had  smoked  another  cigarette 
at  the  opposite  end  of  the  room  with  a  group  of  younger 
men,  who  talked  of  nothing  but  motor  cars ;  and  when 
they  asked  his  opinion  about  something,  he  had  said 
that  he  had  none,  and  preferred  walking,  which  speech 
caused  such  a  perceptible  chill  that  he  turned  away 
and  left  the  young  men  to  their  discussion. 

All  the  while  his  eyes  followed  Cecilia's  movements, 
and  lingered  upon  her  when  she  stood  still  or  sat  down. 
In  the  course  of  the  evening  each  of  the  young  men 
who  talked  about  motor  cars  managed  to  try  his  luck 
at  a  conversation  with  her,  and  all,  by  way  of  being 
original,  talked  to  her  about  the  same  thing.  As  she 
had  just  come  from  Paris,  and  was  rich,  it  was  to  be 
supposed  that  she,  of  course,  owned  a  motor  car,  had 
passed  her  examination  as  an  engineer,  and  spent  most 


102  OfiCILIA 

of  Ke^  tim^:  in  Br  mask  and  broad- visored  cap  scouring 
Europe  at  the  rate  of  fifty  miles  an  hour. 

"But  why  do  you  not  get  an  automobile?"  asked 
each  of  the  young  men,  as  soon  as  her  answer  had  dis- 
appointed him. 

"  Do  you  play  the  violin  ?  "  she  enquired  sweetly  of 
each. 

"No,"  each  answered. 

"  Then  why  do  you  not  get  a  violin  ?  '* 

In  this  way  she  confounded  the  young  men,  and 
their  heads  moved  uneasily  on  the  tops  of  their  high 
collars,  until  they  were  able  to  get  away  from  her. 

Guido  saw  how  they  left  her,  with  a  discomfited  ex- 
pression, and  as  if  they  had  suddenly  acquired  the  con- 
viction that  their  clothes  did  not  fit  them,  for  that  is 
generally  the  first  sensation  experienced  by  a  very  well- 
dressed  young  man  when  he  has  been  made  to  feel  that 
he  is  foolish.  Guido  saw,  and  understood,  and  he  was 
worldly  wise  enough  to  know  that  unless  Cecilia  would 
show  a  little  more  willingness  to  seem  pleased,  she 
would  presently  be  sitting  alone  on  a  sofa,  waiting  for 
her  mother  to  go  home.  As  soon  as  this  inevitable 
result  followed,  he  sat  down  beside  her.  She  turned 
her  face  slowly,  when  he  had  settled  himself,  and  she 
looked  at  him  with  slightly  bent  head,  a  little  upwards, 
from  under  her  lids.  The  light  that  fell  from  a  shaded 
lamp  above  her  marked  the  sharp  curve  of  arching 
brows  sharply  against  the  warm  shadow  over  the  deep- 
set  and  widely  opened  eyes. 

For  a  few  seconds  Guido  returned  the  steady  gaze, 
before  he  spoke. 


A  STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  103 

"  Are  you  the  Sphinx  ?  "  he  asked  suddenly,  "  Have 
you  come  to  life  again  to  ask  men  your  riddle  ?  " 

"I  ask  it  of  myself,"  she  answered  softly,  and  then 
looked  away.     "I  cannot  answer  it." 

"  Are  you  good  or  evil  ? "  Guido  asked,  speaking 
again. 

The  questions  came  to  his  lips  as  if  some  one  else 
were  asking  them  with  his  voice. 

" Good  —  I  think,"  answered  the  young  girl,  motion- 
less beside  him.     "But  I  might  be  very  bad." 

"What  is  the  riddle?  "  Guido  enquired,  and  now  he 
felt  that  he  was  speaking  out  of  his  own  curiosity,  and 
not  as  the  mouthpiece  of  some  one  in  a  dream.  "Do 
you  ask  yourself  what  it  all  means  ?  I  suppose  so.  We 
all  ask  that,  and  we  never  get  any  answer." 

"It  is  too  vague  a  question.  It  cannot  have  a  defi- 
nite answer.  No.  I  ask  three  questions  which  I  found 
in  a  German  book  of  philosophy  when  I  was  a  little  girl. 
I  tried  hard  to  understand  what  all  the  rest  of  the  book 
was  about,  but  I  found  on  one  page  three  questions, 
printed  by  themselves.  I  can  see  the  page  now,  and 
the  questions  were  numbered  one,  two,  and  three.  I 
have  asked  them  ever  since." 

"What  were  they?" 

"They  were  these:  'What  can  I  know?  What 
ought  I  to  do  ?     What  may  I  hope  ?  '  " 

"There  would  be  everything  in  the  answers,"  Guido 
said,  "for  they  are  big  questions.  I  think  I  have 
answered  them  all  in  the  negative  in  my  own  life.  I 
know  nothing,  I  do  nothing,  and  I  hope  nothing." 


104  CECILIA 

Cecilia  looked  at  him  again.  "  I  would  not  be  you,'* 
she  said  gravely.  "  I  can  do  nothing,  perhaps,  and  I 
am  sure  I  know  nothing  worth  knowing,  but  I  hope. 
I  have  that  at  least.  I  hope  everything,  with  all  my 
heart  and  soul  —  everything,  even  things  you  could 
not  dream  of." 

"Help  me  to  dream  of  them.     Perhaps  I  might." 

"Then  dream  that  faith  is  knowledge,  that  charity 
is  action,  and  that  hope  is  heaven  itself,"  answered 
Cecilia. 

Her  voice  was  sweet  and  low,  and  far  away  as  spirit 
land,  and  Guido  wondered  at  the  words. 

"  Where  did  you  he£(.r  that?  "  he  asked. 

"  Ah,  where  ? "  she  asked,  almost  sadly,  and  very 
longingly.  "  If  I  could  tell  you  that,  I  should  know 
the  great  secret,  the  only  secret  ever  yet  worth  knowing. 
Where  have  we  heard  the  voices  that  come  back  to  us, 
not  in  sleeping  dreams  only,  but  when  we  are  waking, 
too,  voices  that  come  back  softly  like  evening  bells 
across  the  sea,  with  the  touch  of  hands  that  lay  in  ours 
long  ago,  and  faces  that  we  know  better  than  our  own ! 
Where  was  it  all,  before  the  memory  of  it  all  was  here  ?  " 

"I  have  often  wondered  whether  those  impressions 
are  memories,"  said  Guido. 

"  What  else  could  they  be  ?  "  Cecilia  asked,  her  tone 
growing  colder  at  once. 

Guido  had  been  happy  in  listening  to  her  talk,  with 
its  suggestion  of  fantastical  extravagance,  but  he  had 
not  known  how  to  answer  her,  nor  how  to  lead  her  on. 
He  felt  that  the  spell  was  broken,  because  something 


A  STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  105 

was  lacking  in  himself.  To  be  a  magician  one  must 
believe  in  magic,  unless  one  would  be  a  mere  conjurer. 
Guido  at  least  knew  enough  not  to  answer  the  girl's 
last  question  with  a  string  of  so-called  scientific  theo- 
ries about  atavism  and  transmitted  recollections.  If 
he  had  taken  that  ground  he  would  have  been  surprised 
to  find  that  Cecilia  Palladio  was  quite  as  familiar  with 
it  as  himself. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  "that  I  am  not  fit  to  talk 
with  you  about  such  things.  You  start  from  a  point 
which  I  can  never  hope  to  reach,  and  instead  of  coming 
down  to  me,  you  rise  higher  and  higher,  almost  out  of 
my  sight.  I  am  afraid  that  if  our  friendship  is  to  be 
real,  it  will  be  a  one-sided  bond." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  the  young  girl,  who 
had  listened. 

"  It  will  mean  much  more  to  me  than  it  ever  can  to 

you." 

"No,"  Cecilia  answered.  "I  think  I  shall  like  you 
very  much." 

"I  like  you  very  much  already,"  said  Guido,  smiling. 
"I  have  an  amusing  idea." 

"  Have  you  ?  What  is  it  ?  Neither  of  us  has  been 
very  amusing  this  evening." 

"Suppose  that  we  take  advantage  of  the  Princess's 
conspiracy.     Shall  we  ?  " 

"My  mother  is  the  other  conspirator  I "  Cecilia 
laughed. 

"  Is  there  any  harm  in  letting  people  see  that  we  like 
each  other?"  Guido  asked. 


106  CECILIA 

"  None  in  the  least.  Every  one  hopes  that  we  may. 
Besides  —  "  she  stopped  short. 

''  What  is  the  other  consideration  ?  "  Guido  enquired. 

"  If  I  am  perfectly  frank  —  brutally  frank  —  shall 
you  be  less  my  friend?  " 

"No.     Much  more." 

"I  do  not  wish  to  marry  at  all,"  said  Cecilia,  and 
again  she  reminded  him  of  the  Sphinx.  "  But  if  I  ever 
should  change  my  mind,  since  you  and  I  have  been 
picked  out  to  make  a  match,  I  suppose  I  might  as  well 
marry  you  as  any  one  else." 

"Oh,  quite  as  well!" 

Then  Guido  laughed,  as  he  rarely  did,  not  loudly, 
but  with  all  his  heart,  and  Cecilia  did  not  try  to  check 
her  amusement  either. 

"I  suppose  it  really  is  very  funny,"  she  said. 

"  The  only  thing  necessary  is  that  no  one  should  ever 
guess  that  we  have  made  a  compact.  That  would  be 
fatal." 

"  No  one !  '*  cried  the  young  girl,  eagerly.  "  No  one ! 
Not  even  your  friend!  " 

"  Lamberti  ?    No,  least  of  all,  Lamberti  I  " 

"  Why  do  you  say,  least  of  all  ?  " 

"Because  you  do  not  like  him,"  Guido  answered, 
with  perfect  sincerity. 

"Oh!  I  see.  I  am  not  sure,  of  course,  but  I  am 
glad  you  do  not  mean  to  tell  him.  It  would  make  me 
nervous  to  think  that  he  might  know.  I  —  I  am  not 
quite  certain  why  it  makes  me  nervous,  but  it  does." 

"Have  no  fear.     When  shall  I  see  you?  " 


A   STOBY   OF  MODERK  ROME  107 

He  had  noticed  that  Cecilia's  mother  was  beginning 
that  little  comedy  of  movements,  and  glances,  and  un- 
easy turnings  of  the  head,  by  which  mothers  of  marriage- 
able daughters  signify  their  intention  of  going  home. 
The  works  of  a  clock  probably  act  in  the  same  way 
before  striking. 

"I  will  make  my  mother  ask  you  to  dinner.  Are 
you  free  to-morrow  night  ?  " 

"Any  night." 

"No  —  I  mean  really.     Are  you ?  " 

"  Yes,  really.  Lamberti  does  not  count,  for  we  gener- 
ally dine  together  when  we  have  no  other  engagement." 

The  shadow  again  flitted  across  Cecilia's  braw,  and 
she  said  nothing,  only  nodding  quickly.  Then  she 
looked  across  the  room  at  her  mother.  Young  girls  are 
always  instantly  aware  that  their  mothers  are  making 
signs.  When  Nelson's  commander-in-chief  signalled 
to  him  at  the  battle  of  Copenhagen  the  order  to  retire, 
Nelson  put  his  spy-glass  to  his  blind  eye  and  assured 
his  officers  that  he  could  see  nothing,  went  on,. and  won 
the  fight.  Every  young  girl  is  totally  blind  of  one  eye 
during  periods  that  vary  between  ten  minutes  and  three 
hours. 

Cecilia  having  recovered  her  sight,  and  seen  her 
mother,  rose  with  obedient  alacrity. 

"Good  night,"  she  said  to  Guido.  "I  am  glad  we 
are  friends." 

Their  glances  met  for  a  moment,  and  Guido  made  an 
imperceptible  gesture  to  put  out  his  hand,  but  she  did 
not  answer  it.      He  thought  her  refusal  a  little  old- 


108  CECILIA 

fashioned,  since  young  girls  now  shake  hands  in  Italy 
more  often  than  not;  but  he  liked  her  ways,  chiefly 
because  they  were  hers,  and,  moreover,  he  remembered 
just  then  that  at  her  age  she  was  supposed  to  be  barely 
out  of  the  schoolroom  or  the  convent. 


CHAPTER  VI 

"Spiritualism,  your  Highness,  is  the  devil,  with- 
out doubt,"  said  the  learned  ecclesiastical  archaeologist, 
Don  Nicola  Francesetti,  in  an  apologetic  tone,  and 
looking  at  his  knees.  "If  there  is  anything  more 
heretical,  it  is  a  belief  in  a  possible  migration  of  souls 
from  one  body  to  another,  in  a  series  of  lives." 

The  Princess  Anatolic  smiled  at  the  excellent  man 
and  exchanged  a  glance  of  compassionate  intelligence 
with  Monsieur  Leroy.  She  did  not  care  a  straw  what 
the  Church  thought  about  anything  except  Protestants 
and  Jews,  and  she  did  not  believe  that  Don  Nicola 
cared  either.  He  chanced  to  be  a  priest,  instead  of  a 
professor,  and  it  was  of  course  his  duty  to  protest 
against  heresy  when  it  was  thrust  under  his  cogitative 
observation.  Spiritualism  was  not  exactly  heresy,  there- 
fore he  said  it  was  the  devil,  and  no  mistake ;  but  as 
she  was  sure  that  he  did  not  believe  in  the  devil,  that 
only  proved  that  he  did  not  believe  in  spiritualism. 

In  this  she  was  mistaken,  however,  as  people  often 
are  in  their  judgment  of  priests.  Nicola  Francesetti 
had  long  ago  placed  his  conscience  in  safety,  so  to 
speak,  by  telling  himself  that  he  was  not  a  theologian, 
but  an  archaeologist,  and  that  as  he  could  not  afford  to 
divide  his  time  and  his  intelligence  between  two  sub- 

109 


110  CECILIA 

jects,  where  one  was  too  vast,  it  was  therefore  his  plain 
duty  to  think  about  all  questions  of  religion  as  the 
Church  taught  him  to  think.  He  admitted  that  if  his 
life  could  begin  again  he  would  perhaps  not  again 
enter  the  priesthood,  but  he  would  never  have  conceded 
that  he  could  have  been  anything  but  a  believing  Catho- 
lic. He  had  no  vocation  whatever  for  saving  souls, 
whereas  he  possessed  the  archaeological  gift  in  a  high 
degree ;  and  yet,  as  a  clergyman  and  a  good  Christian, 
he  was  convinced  at  heart  that  a  man  in  holy  orders  had 
no  right  to  give  his  whole  life  and  strength  to  another 
profession.  He  had  asked  the  advice  of  a  wise  and 
good  man  on  this  point,  however,  and  the  theologian 
had  thought  that  he  should  continue  to  live  as  he  was 
living.  Had  he  a  cure?  No,  he  had  none.  Had  he 
ever  evaded  a  priest's  work?  That  is,  had  work  been 
offered  to  him  where  a  priest  was  needed,  and  where 
he  could  have  done  active  good,  and  had  he  refused 
because  it  was  distasteful  to  him  ?  No,  never.  Was 
he  receiving  any  stipend  for  performing  a  priest's 
duties,  with  the  tacit  understanding  that  he  was  at 
liberty  to  pay  an  impecunious  substitute  a  part  of  the 
money  for  taking  his  place,  so  that  he  himself  profited 
by  the  transaction?  No,  certainly  not.  Don  Nicola 
had  a  sufficient  income  of  his  own  to  live  on.  Had  he 
ever  made  a  solemn  promise  to  devote  his  life  to  mis- 
sionary labours  among  the  heathen?     No. 

"In  that  case,  my  dear  friend,"  concluded  the  theo- 
logian, "you  are  tormenting  yourself  with  perfectly 
useless  scruples.     You  are  making  a  mountain  of  your 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  111 

molehill,  and  when  you  have  made  your  mountain  you 
will  not  be  satisfied  until  you  have  made  another  beside 
it.  In  the  course  of  time  you  will,  in  fact,  oppress 
your  innocent  conscience  with  a  whole  range  of  moun- 
tains ;  you  will  be  immobilised  under  the  weight,  and 
then  you  will  become  hateful  to  yourself,  useless  to 
others,  and  an  object  of  pity  to  wise  men.  Stick  to 
your  archaeology." 

"Is  pure  study  a  good  in  itself?"  askqd  Don  Nicola. 

"  What  is  good  ?  "  retorted  the  theologian  viciously. 
"I  wish  you  would  define  it!  " 

Don  Nicola  was  silent,  for  though  he  could  think  of 
a  number  of  synonyms  for  the  conception,  he  remem- 
bered no  definition  corresponding  to  any  of  them.  He 
waited. 

"Good  and  goodness  are  not  the  same  thing,"  ob- 
served the  theologian;  "you  might  as  well  say  that 
study  and  knowledge  are  the  same  thing." 

"But  study  should  lead  to  knowledge." 

"And  goodness  should  lead  to  good;  and,  compared 
with  ignorance,  knowledge  is  a  form  of  good.  There- 
fore study  is  a  form  of  goodness.  Consequently,  as 
you  have  a  turn  for  erudition,  the  best  thing  you  can 
do  is  to  go  on  with  your  studies." 

"I  see,"  said  Don  Nicola. 

"I  wish  I  did,"  sighed  the  theologian,  when  the 
priest  was  gone.  "  How  very  pleasant  it  must  be,  to 
be  an  archaeologist!  " 

After  that,  whenever  Don  Nicola  was  troubled  with 
uneasiness   about  his   profession,   he  soothed   himself 


112  CECILIA 

with  his  friend's  little  syllogism,  which  was  as  full  of 
holes  as  a  sieve,  as  flimsy  as  a  tissue-paper  balloon,  and 
as  unstable  as  a  pyramid  upside  down,  but  nevertheless 
perfectly  satisfactory. 

"Of  course,"  says  humanity,  "I  know  nothing  about 
it.     But  I  am  perfectly  sure." 

And  so  forth.  And  moreover,  if  humanity  were  not 
frequently  quite  sure  of  things  concerning  which  it 
knows  nothing,  the  world  would  soon  come  to  a  stand- 
still, and  never  move  again ;  like  the  ass  in  the  fable, 
that  died  of  hunger  in  its  stall  between  two  bundles  of 
hay,  unable  to  decide  which  to  eat  first.  That  also  was 
an  instance  of  stable  equilibrium. 

Don  Nicola  avoided  all  questions  of  religion  in  gen- 
eral conversation,  and  tried  to  make  other  people  avoid 
them  when  he  was  the  only  clergyman  present,  because 
he  did  not  like  to  be  asked  his  opinion  about  them. 
But  when  the  Princess  Anatolie  and  Monsieur  Leroy 
gravely  declared  their  belief  in  the  communications  of 
departed  persons  by  means  of  rappings,  not  to  say  by 
touch,  and  by  strains  of  music,  and  perfumes,  and  even, 
on  rare  occasions,  by  actual  apparition,  then  Don  Nicola 
felt  that  it  was  his  duty  to  protest,  and  he  accordingly 
protested  with  considerable  energy.  He  said  that 
spiritualism  was  the  devil. 

"The  chief  object  of  the  devil's  existence,"  observed 
Monsieur  Leroy,  "is  to  bear  responsibility." 

The  Princess  laughed  and  nodded  her  approval,  as 
she  always  did  when  Monsieur  Leroy  said  anything 
which  she  thought  clever.     Don  Nicola  was  too  wise 


A  STORY   OF  MODERN   ROME  113 

to  discuss  the  matter,  if,  indeed,  it  admitted  of  discus- 
sion; for  the  devil  was  certainly  responsible  for  a  good 
deal. 

"Your  definition  of  spiritualism  is  so  very  liberal," 
Monsieur  Leroy  added,  with  a  fine  supercilious  smile 
on  his  red  lips. 

"It  is  not  mine,"  answered  Don  Nicola,  modestly. 

"No.  I  suppose  it  is  the  opinion  of  the  Church. 
At  all  events,  you  do  not  doubt  the  possibility  of 
communicating  with  the  spirits  of  dead  persons,  do 
you?" 

"I  have  never  examined  the  matter,  my  dear  sir." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Monsieur  Leroy,  with  airy 
superiority,  "  that  it  is  rather  rash  to  attribute  to  Satan 
everything  which  you  will  not  take  the  trouble  to 
examine." 

"Hush,  Doudoul"  cried  the  Princess.  "You  are 
very  rude  I  " 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all,  your  Highness !  "  protested 
Don  Nicola,  rising.  "  I  should  be  very  much  surprised 
if  Monsieur  Leroy  expressed  himself  differently." 

Monsieur  Leroy  had  no  retort  ready,  and  tried  to 
smile. 

"It  will  give  me  the  greatest  pleasure  to  be  your 
guide  to  the  new  excavations  in  the  Forum,"  added  the 
priest,  as  he  took  his  leave. 

The  Princess  and  Monsieur  Leroy  were  left  alone. 

"  Shall  we  ?  "  he  asked  after  a  moment's  silence,  and 
waited  anxiously  for  the  answer. 

"I  am  afraid  They  will  not  come  to-night,  Doudou," 


114  CECILIA 

said  the  Princess.  "You  have  excited  yourself  in 
argument.     You  know  that  always  has  a  bad  effect." 

"That  man  irritates  me,"  answered  Monsieur  Leroy, 
peevishly.     "  Why  do  you  receive  him  ?  " 

He  spoke  in  the  tone  of  a  spoilt  child  —  a  spoilt  child 
of  forty,  or  thereabouts. 

"  I  thought  you  liked  him,"  replied  the  Princess,  very 
meekly.  "I  will  give  orders  that  he  is  not  to  be 
received.     We  will  not  go  to  the  Forum  with  him." 

"  No,  no !  How  you  exaggerate  I  You  always  think 
that  I  mean  a  great  deal  more  than  I  say.  I  only  said 
that  he  irritated  me." 

"Why  should  you  be  irritated  for  nothing?  You 
know  it  is  bad  for  you." 

She  looked  at  him  with  an  air  of  concern,  and  there 
was  a  gentleness  in  her  eyes  which  few  had  ever  seen 
in  them. 

"It  does  not  matter,"  answered  Monsieur  Leroy, 
crossly. 

He  had  risen,  and  he  brought  a  very  small  and  light 
mahogany  table  from  a  corner.  It  was  one  of  those 
which  used  to  be  made  during  the  second  Empire  in 
sets  of  six  and  of  successive  sizes,  so  that  each  fitted 
each  under  the  next  larger  one.  He  moved  awkwardly 
and  yet  without  noise;  there  was  something  very 
womanish  in  his  figure  and  gait. 

He  set  the  little  table  before  the  Princess,  very  close 
to  her,  lit  a  single  candle,  which  he  placed  on  the  floor 
behind  an  arm-chair,  and  turned  out  the  electric  light. 
Then  he  sat  down  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table  and 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  115 

spread  out  his  hands  upon  it,  side  by  side,  the  right 
thumb  resting  on  the  left.  The  Princess  did  the  same. 
They  glanced  at  each  other  once  or  twice,  hardly  dis- 
tinguishing each  other's  features  in  the  gloom.  Then 
they  looked  steadily  down  upon  the  table,  and  neither 
stirred  for  a  long  time. 

"I  am  sure  They  will  not  come,"  said  the  Princess  at 
last,  in  a  very  low  voice. 

"Hush!" 

Silence  again,  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Somewhere 
in  the  room  a  small  clock,  or  a  watch,  ticked  quickly, 
with  a  little  rhythmical,  insisting  accent  on  the  fourth 
beat. 

"  It  moved,  then  I "  whispered  the  Princess,  excitedly. 

"Yes.     Hush!" 

The  little  table  certainly  moved,  with  a  queerly  soft 
rocking  motion,  as  if  its  feet  only  just  touched  the  car- 
pet and  supported  no  weight.  The  Princess's  hands 
felt  as  if  they  were  floating  over  tiny  rippling  waves, 
and  between  her  shoulders  came  the  almost  stinging 
thrill  she  loved.  She  wished  that  the  room  were  quite 
dark  now,  in  order  that  she  might  feel  more.  There 
were  tiny  beads  of  perspiration  on  Monsieur  Leroy's 
forehead,  and  his  hands  were  moist.  The  candle  behind 
the  arm-chair  flickered. 

"  Are  You  there  ?  "  asked  Monsieur  Leroy,  in  a  voice 
unlike  his  own. 

There  was  no  answer.  The  table  moved  more  un- 
easily. 

"Rap  once  for  'yes,'  twice  for  'no,'  "  said  Monsieur 


116  CECILIA 

Leroy.  "Is  this  the  first  time  you  have  come  to 
us?" 

One  rap  answered  the  question,  sharp  and  clear,  as 
if  the  butt  of  a  pencil  had  struck  the  table  underneath 
it  and  near  the  middle. 

"  Are  you  the  spirit  of  a  man  ?  " 

Two  raps  very  distinct. 

"  Then  you  are  a  woman.     Tell  us  —  " 

Several  raps  came  in  quick  succession,  in  pairs,  as 
if  to  repeat  the  negative  energetically.  Monsieur 
Leroy  seemed  to  hesitate  what  question  to  ask. 

"Perhaps  it  is  a  child,"  suggested  the  Princess,  in  a 
tremulous  tone. 

A  sharp  rap.  Yes,  it  was  a  child.  Was  it  a  little 
girl?  Yes.  Had  it  been  dead  long?  Yes.  More 
than  ten  years?  Yes.  More  than  twenty?  Yes. 
Fifty?    No.     Forty?    Yes. 

Monsieur  Leroy  began  to  count,  pausing  after  each 
number. 

"  Forty-one  — forty-two — forty-three — forty-four — " 

The  sharp  rap  again.  The  Princess  drew  a  quick 
breath.  ' 

"How  old  was  it  when  it  died?"  she  managed  to 
ask. 

Monsieur  Leroy  began  to  count  again,  beginning 
with  one.  At  the  word  seven,  the  rap  came.  The 
Princess  started  violently,  almost  upsetting  the  table 
against  her  companion. 

"  Adelaide !  "    She  cried  in  a  broken  voice. 

One  rap. 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  IIT 

"Oh,  my  darling,  my  darling!  " 

The  old  woman  bent  down  over  the  table,  and  her 
outspread  hands  tried  frantically  to  take  up  the  flat 
surface,  and  she  kissed  the  polished  wood  passionately, 
again  and  again,  not  knowing  what  she  did,  nor  hear- 
ing her  own  incoherent  words  of  mixed  joy  and  agony. 

"  My  child !  My  little  thing  —  my  sweet  — speak  to 
me  — 

Her  whole  being  was  convulsed.  Little  storms  of 
rappings  seemed  to  answer  her.  The  perspiration 
trickled  down  Monsieur  Leroy's  temples.  He  seemed 
to  be  making  an  effort  altogether  beyond  his  natural 
strength. 

"  Speak  to  me  —  call  me  by  the  little  name !  "  sobbed 
the  Princess,  and  her  tears  wet  her  hands  and  the  table. 

Monsieur  Leroy  began  to  repeat  the  alphabet.  From 
time  to  time  a  rap  stopped  him  at  a  letter,  and  then  he 
began  over  again.  In  this  way  the  rapping  spelt  out 
the  word  "Mamette." 

"She  says  'Mamette,'"  said  Monsieur  Leroy,  in  a 
puzzled  tone.     "  Does  that  mean  anything  ?  " 

But  the  Princess  burst  into  passionate  weeping.  It 
was  the  name  she  had  asked  for,  the  child's  own  pet 
name  for  her,  its  mother;  it  was  the  last  word  the  poor 
little  dying  lips  had  tried  to  form.  Never  since  that 
moment  had  the  heart-broken  woman  spoken  it,  never 
since  the  fourth  year  before  Monsieur  Leroy  had  been 
born. 

He  looked  at  her,  for  he  seemed  to  have  preserved 
his  self-control,  and  he  saw  that  if  matters  went  much 


118  CECILIA 

further  the  poor  sobbing  woman  would  reach  a  state 
which  might  be  dangerous.  He  withdrew  his  hands 
from  the  table  and  waited. 

"  She  is  gone,  but  she  will  come  again  now,  when- 
ever you  call  her,"  he  said  gently. 

"No,  do  not  go!"  cried  the  Princess,  clutching  at 
the  smooth  wood  frantically.  "  Come  back,  come  back 
and  speak  to  me  once  more !  " 

"She  is  gone,  for  to-night,"  said  Monsieur  Leroy,  in 
the  same  gentle  tone.     "I  am  very  much  exhausted." 

He  pressed  his  handkerchief  to  his  forehead  and 
to  his  temples,  again  and  again,  while  the  Princess 
moaned,  her  cheek  upon  the  table,  as  she  had  once  let 
it  rest  upon  the  breast  of  her  dead  child. 

Monsieur  Leroy  rose  cautiously,  fearing  to  disturb 
her.  He  was  trembling  now,  as  men  sometimes  do  who 
have  escaped  alive  from  a  great  danger.  He  steadied 
himself  by  the  back  of  the  arm-chair,  behind  which  the 
candle  was  burning  steadily.  With  an  effort,  he 
stooped  and  took  up  the  candlestick  and  set  it  on  the 
table.  Then  he  looked  at  his  watch  and  saw  that  it 
was  past  eleven  o'clock. 


CHAPTER  VII 

It  was  some  time  since  Guido  had  seen  Lamberti, 
but  the  latter  had  written  him  a  line  to  say  that  he  was 
going  with  a  party  of  men  to  stop  in  an  old  country 
house  near  the  seashore,  not  far  from  Civit^  Vecchia. 
The  quail  were  very  abundant  in  May  that  year,  and 
Lamberti  was  a  good  shot.  He  had  left  home  suddenly 
on  the  morning  after  telling  Guido  the  story  of  his  ad- 
venture in  the  Forum.  Guido  had  at  first  been  mildly 
surprised  that  his  friend  should  not  have  spoken  of  his 
intention  on  that  evening;  but  some  one  had  told  him 
that  the  party  had  been  made  up  at  the  club,  late  at 
night,  which  accounted  for  everything. 

Guido  was  soon  too  much  occupied  to  miss  the  daily 
companionship,  and  was  glad  to  be  alone,  when  he 
could  not  be  with  Cecilia.  He  no  longer  concealed 
from  himself  that  he  was  very  much  in  love  with  her, 
and  that,  compared  with  this  fact,  nothing  in  his  pre- 
vious life  had  been  of  any  importance  whatever.  Even 
the  circumstances  of  his  position  with  regard  to  his 
aunt  sank  into  insignificance.  She  might  do  what  she 
pleased,  she  might  try  to  ruin  him,  she  might  perse- 
cute him  to  the  extreme  limit  of  her  ingenuity,  she 
might  invent  calumnies  intended  to  disgrace  him;  he 
was  confident  of  victory  and  sure  of  himself. 

119 


120  CECILIA 

One  of  the  first  unmistakable  signs  of  genuine  love 
is  the  certainty  of  doing  the  impossible.  An  hour 
before  meeting  Cecilia,  Guido  had  been  reduced  to  the 
deepest  despondency,  and  had  talked  gravely  of  ending 
a  life  that  was  not  worth  living.  A  fortnight  had 
passed,  and  he  defied  his  aunt,  Monsieur  Leroy,  the 
whole  world,  an  adverse  fate,  and  the  powers  of  evil. 
They  might  do  their  worst,  now,  for  he  was  full  of 
strength,  and  ten  times  more  alive  than  he  had  ever 
been  before. 

It  was  true  that  he  could  not  see  the  smallest  change 
in  Cecilia's  manner  towards  him  since  the  memorable 
evening  on  which  she  had  laughingly  agreed  to  take 
advantage  of  what  was  thrust  upon  them  both.  Her 
colour  did  not  change  by  the  least  shade  of  a  blush 
when  she  met  him ;  there  was  not  the  slightest  quiver- 
ing of  the  delicate  eyelids,  there  was  nothing  but  the 
most  friendly  frankness  in  the  steady  look  of  welcome. 
But  she  liked  him  very  much,  and  was  at  no  pains  to 
conceal  it.  She  liked  him  better  than  any  one  she  had 
ever  met  in  her  short  life,  except  her  step-father,  and 
she  told  Guido  so  with  charming  unconcern.  As  he 
could  not  be  jealous  of  the  dead  ambassador,  he  was 
not  at  all  discouraged  by  the  comparison.  Sometimes 
he  was  rather  flattered  by  it,  and  he  could  not  but  feel 
that  he  had  already  acquired  a  position  from  which  any 
future  suitor  would  find  it  hard  to  dislodge  him. 

The  Countess  Fortiguerra  looked  on  with  wonder- 
ing satisfaction.  Her  daughter  had  not  led  her  to  be- 
lieve that  she  would  readily  accept  what  must  soon  be 


A   STORY   OF  MODERN   ROME  121 

looked  upon  by  society  as  an  engagement,  and  what 
would  certainly  be  one  before  long.  When  Guido 
went  to  see  his  aunt,  she  received  him  with  expansive 
expressions  of  affection. 

He  noticed  a  change  in  the  Princess,  which  he  could 
only  explain  by  the  satisfaction  he  supposed  she  felt  in 
his  conduct.  There  were  times  when  her  artijBcial  face 
softened  with  a  look  of  genuine  feeling,  especially  when 
she  was  silent  and  inattentive.  Guido  knew  her  well 
enough,  he  thought,  to  impute  these  signs  to  her  in- 
ward contentment  at  the  prospect  of  his  marriage,  from 
which  she  was  sure  of  extracting  notable  financial  ad- 
vantage. But  in  this  he  was  not  just,  though  he  judged 
from  long  experience.  Monsieur  Leroy  alone  knew  the 
secret,  and  he  kept  his  own  counsel. 

An  inquisitive  friend  asked  the  Countess  Fortiguerra 
boldly  whether  she  intended  to  announce  the  engage- 
ment of  her  daughter  at  the  garden  party. 

"No,  "she  answered,  without  hesitation,  "that  would 
be  premature." 

She  was  careful,  in  a  way,  to  do  nothing  irrevocable 
—  never  to  take  Guido  into  her  carriage,  not  to  ask 
him  to  dinner  when  there  were  other  guests,  not  to 
leave  him  alone  with  Cecilia  when  there  was  a  possi- 
bility of  such  a  thing  being  noticed  by  the  servants, 
except  by  the  discreet  Petersen,  who  could  be  trusted, 
and  who  strongly  approved  of  Guido  from  the  first. 
But  when  it  was  quite  safe,  the  Countess  used  to  go 
and  sit  in  a  little  boudoir  adjoining  the  drawing-room, 
leaving  the  doors  open,  of  course,  and  occupying  her- 


122  CECILIA 

self  with  her  correspondence;  and  Guide  and  Cecilia 
talked  without  restraint. 

The  Countess  had  enough  womanly  and  instinctive 
wisdom  not  to  ask  questions  of  her  daughter  at  this 
stage,  but  on  the  day  before  the  long-expected  garden 
party  she  spoke  to  Guido  alone,  in  a  little  set  speech 
which  she  had  prepared  with  more  conscientiousness 
than  diplomatic  skill. 

"You  have  seen,"  she  said,  "that  I  am  always  glad 
to  receive  you  here,  and  that  I  often  leave  you  and 
Cecilia  together  in  the  drawing-room.  Dear  Signor 
d'Este,  I  am  sure  you  will  understand  me  if  I  ask  you 
to  —  to  —  to  tell  me  something." 

She  had  meant  to  end  the  sentence  differently,  round- 
ing it  off  with  "your  intentions  with  regard  to  my 
daughter  " ;  but  that  sounded  like  something  in  a  letter, 
so  she  tried  to  make  it  more  vague.  But  Guido  under- 
stood, which  is  not  surprising. 

"You  have  been  very  kind  to  me,"  he  said  simply.- 
"I  love  your  daughter  sincerely,  and  if  she  will  consent 
to  marry  me  I  shall  do  my  best  to  make  her  happy. 
But,  so  far,  I  have  no  reason  to  think  that  she  will 
accept  me.  Besides,  whether  you  know  it  already  or 
not,  I  must  tell  you  that  I  am  a  poor  man.  I  have  no 
fortune  whatever,  though  I  receive  an  allowance  by  my 
father's  will,  which  is  enough  for  a  bachelor.  It  will 
cease  at  my  death.  Your  daughter  could  make  a  very 
much  more  brilliant  marriage." 

The  good  Countess  had  listened  in  silence.  The 
Princess,  for  reasons  of  her  own,  had  explained  Guide's 


A   STORY    OF   MODERN   ROME  123 

position  with  considerable  minuteness,  if  not  with 
scrupulous  accuracy. 

"Cecilia  is  rich  enough  to  marry  whom  she  pleases," 
the  Countess  answered.  "Even  without  considering 
her  inclinations,  your  social  position  would  make  up 
for  your  want  of  fortune." 

"My  social  position  is  not  very  exalted,"  Guido  an- 
swered, smiling  at  her  frankness.  "I  am  plain  'Signer 
d'Este,'  without  any  title  whatsoever,  or  without  the 
least  prospect  of  one." 

"But  your  royal  blood  —  "  protested  the  Countess. 

"  I  am  more  proud  of  the  fact  that  my  mother  was  an 
honest  woman,"  replied  Guido,  quietly. 

"  Yes  —  oh  —  of  course !  "  The  Countess  was  a 
little  abashed.  "But  you  know  what  I  mean,"  she 
added,  by  way  of  making  matters  clear.  "  And  as  for 
your  fortune  —  I  would  say,  your  allowance,  and  all 
that  —  it  really  does  not  matter.  It  is  natural  that  you 
should  have  made  debts,  too.  All  young  men  do,  I 
believe." 

"  No,"  said  Guido.    " I  have  not  a  debt  in  the  world." 

"Really?" 

The  single  word  sounded  more  like  an  exclamation 
of  extreme  surprise  than  like  an  interrogation,  and  the 
Countess,  who  was  incapable  of  concealment,  stared  at 
Guido  for  a  moment  in  undisguised  astonishment. 

"Why  are  you  so  much  surprised?"  he  asked,  with 
evident  amusement.  "My  allowance  is  fifty  thousand 
francs  a  year.  That  is  not  wealth,  but  it  is  quite 
enough  for  me." 


124  CECILIA 

"Yes.  I  should  think  so.  That  is  —  of  course,  it 
is  not  much  —  is  it  ?  I  never  know  anything  about 
money,  you  know!  Baron  Goldbirn  manages  every- 
thing for  us." 

"I  suppose,"  Guido  said,  looking  at  her  curiously, 
"that  some  one  must  have  told  you  that  I  had  made 
debts." 

"Yes  — yes!     Some  one  did  tell  me  so." 

"Whoever  said  it  was  quite  mistaken.  I  can  easily 
satisfy  you  on  that  point,  for  I  am  a  very  orderly  per- 
son. I  used  to  play  high  when  I  was  twenty-one,  but 
T  got  tired  of  it,  and  I  do  not  care  for  cards  any  longer." 

"It  is  very  strange,  all  the  same!"  The  Countess 
was  still  wondering,  though  she  believed  him.  "  How 
people  lie !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  admirably,  and  most  of  the  time,"  Guido 
answered,  with  a  little  laugh. 

There  was  a  short  pause.  He  also  was  wondering 
who  could  have  maligned  him.  No  doubt  it  must  have 
been  some  designing  mother  who  had  a  son  to  marry. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said  at  last.  "I  have  told  you 
exactly  what  my  position  is.  Have  you,  on  your  side, 
any  reason  to  think  that  your  daughter  will  consent  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  she  will !  "  answered  the  Countess, 
promptly. 

Guido  repressed  a  movement,  and  for  an  instant  the 
colour  rose  faintly  in  his  face,  then  sank  away. 

"Quite  sure?"  he  asked,  controlling  his  voice. 

"  I  mean,  in  the  end,  you  know.  She  will  marry  you 
in  the  end.  I  am  convinced  of  it.  But  I  think  I  had 
better  not  ask  her  just  yet." 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  125 

There  were  matters  in  regard  to  which  she  was  dis- 
tinctly afraid  of  her  daughter. 

"May  I?"  Guido  enquired.  "Will  you  let  me  ask 
her  to  marry  me,  when  I  think  that  the  time  has  come  ?  " 

"  Certainly !  That  is  —  "  The  Countess  believed 
that  she  ought  to  hesitate.  "  After  all,  we  have  only 
known  you  a  fortnight.     That  is  not  long.     Is  it?  " 

"No.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  you  had  never  seen 
me  when  you  and  my  aunt  agreed  that  your  daughter 
and  I  should  be  married." 

"How  did  you  know  that  we  had  talked  about  it? " 

"It  was  rather  evident,"  Guido  answered,  with  a 
smile. 

The  artlessness  which  is  often  a  charm  in  a  young 
girl  looks  terribly  like  foolishness  if  it  lasts  till  a 
woman  is  forty.  Yet  in  old  age  it  may  seem  charming 
again,  as  if  second  childhood  brought  with  it  a  second 
innocence. 

Guido  was  an  Italian  only  by  his  mother,  and  from 
his  father  he  inherited  the  profoundly  complicated 
character  of  races  that  had  ruled  the  world  for  a  thou- 
sand years  or  more,  and  not  always  either  wisely  or 
justly.  Under  his  indifference  and  quiet  dislike  of  all 
action,  as  well  as  of  most  emotions,  he  had  always  felt 
the  conflicting  instincts  towards  good  and  evil,  and  the 
contempt  of  consequences  bordering  on  folly,  if  not 
upon  real  insanity,  which  had  brought  about  the  decline 
and  fall  of  his  father's  kingdom.  The  perfect  sim- 
plicity of  the  real  Italian  character  when  in  a  state  of 
equilibrium  always  amused  him,  and  often  pleased  him. 


126  CECILIA 

and  he  had  a  genuine  admiration  for  the  splendidly 
violent  contrasts  which  it  develops  when  roused  by 
passion.  He  could  read  it  like  an  open  book,  and 
predict  what  it  would  do  in  almost  any  circumstances. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  felt  something  of  its 
directness  in  himself,  moving  to  a  definite  aim  through 
the  maze  of  useless  complications,  hesitations,  and 
turns  and  returns  of  thought  with  which  he  was  familiar 
in  his  own  character.  He  smiled  at  the  idea  that  he 
might  end  by  resembling  Lamberti,  with  whom  to  think 
was  to  feel,  and  to  feel  was  to  act.  Were  there  two 
selves  in  him,  of  which  the  one  was  in  love,  and  the 
other  was  not?  That  was  an  amusing  theory,  and  a 
fortnight  ago  it  would  have  been  pleasant  to  sit  in  his 
room  at  night,  among  his  Diirers,  his  Rembrandts,  and 
his  pictures,  with  an  old  book  on  his  knee,  dreaming 
about  his  two  conflicting  individualities.  But  some- 
how dreaming  had  lost  its  charm  of  late.  He  thought 
only  of  one  question,  and  asked  only  one  of  the  future. 
Was  Cecilia  Palladio's  friendship  about  to  turn  into 
anything  that  could  be  called  love,  or  not  ?  His  inten- 
tion warned  him  that  if  the  change  had  come  she  herself 
was  not  conscious  of  it.  He  was  authorised  to  ask  her, 
now  that  the  Countess  had  spoken  —  formally  author- 
ised, but  he  was  quite  sure  that  if  he  had  believed  that 
she  already  loved  him,  he  would  not  have  waited  for 
any  such  permission.  His  father's  blood  resented  the 
restraint  of  all  ordinary  conventions,  and  in  the  most 
profound  inaction  he  had  always  morally  and  inwardly 
reserved  the  right  to  do  what  he  pleased,  if  he  should 
ever  care  to  do  anything  at  all. 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  127 

He  was  just  going  to  dress  for  dinner  that  evening 
when  Lamberti  came  in,  a  little  more  sianburned  than 
usual,  but  thinner,  and  very  restless  in  his  manner. 
Guido  explained  that  he  was  going  to  dine  with  the 
Countess  Fortiguerra.  He  oifered  to  telephone  for 
permission  to  bring  Lamberti  with  him. 

"  Do  you  know  them  well  enough  for  that  already  ?  " 
Lamberti  asked. 

"  Yes.  I  have  seen  them  a  great  deal  since  you  left. 
Shall  I  ask?" 

"No,  thank  you.  I  shall  dine  at  home  with  my 
people." 

"  Shall  you  go  to  the  garden  party  to-morrow  ?  " 

"No." 

Guido  looked  at  him  curiously,  and  he  immediately 
turned  away,  unlike  himself. 

"  Have  you  had  any  more  strange  dreams  since  I  saw 
you  ?  "  Guido  asked. 

"Yes." 

Lamberti  did  not  turn  round  again,  but  looked  atten- 
tively at  an  etching  on  the  table,  so  that  Guido  could 
not  see  his  face.  His  monosyllabic  answers  were 
nervous  and  sharp.  It  was  clear  that  he  was  under 
some  kind  of  strain  that  was  becoming  intolerable,  but 
of  which  he  did  not  care  to  speak. 

"  How  is  it  going  ?  "  he  asked  suddenly. 

"I  think  everything  is  going  well,"  answered  Guido, 
who  knew  what  he  meant,  though  neither  of  them  had 
spoken  to  the  other  of  Cecilia,  except  in  the  most  casual 
way,  since  they  had  both  met  her. 


128  CECILIA 

"So  you  are  going  to  marry  an  heiress  after  all,"  said 
Lamberti,  with  something  like  a  laugh. 

"I  love  her,"  Guido  replied.  "I  cannot  help  the 
fact  that  she  is  rich." 

"It  does  no  harm." 

"Perhaps  not,  but  I  wish  she  had  no  more  than  I. 
If  she  had  nothing  at  all,  I  should  be  just  as  anxious  to 
marry  her." 

"You  do  not  suppose  that  I  doubt  that,  do  you?" 
Lamberti  asked  quickly. 

"No.  But  you  spoke  at  first  as  if  you  were  reproach- 
ing me  for  changing  my  mind." 

"Did  I?  I  am  sorry.  I  did  not  mean  it  in  that 
way.  I  was  only  thinking  that  fate  generally  makes 
us  do  just  what  we  do  not  intend.  There  is  something 
diabolically  ingenious  about  destiny.  It  lies  in  wait 
for  you,  it  seems  to  leave  everything  to  your  own 
choice,  it  makes  you  think  that  you  are  a  perfectly  free 
agent,  and  then,  without  the  least  warning,  it  springs 
at  you  from  behind  a  tree,  knocks  you  down,  tramples 
the  breath  out  of  you,  and  drags  you  off  by  the  heels 
straight  to  the  very  thing  you  have  sworn  to  avoid. 
Man  a  free  agent  ?  Nonsense  I  There  is  no  such  thing 
as  free  will." 

"  What  in  the  world  has  happened  to  you  ?  "  Guido 
asked,  by  way  of  answer.     "  Is  anything  wrong  ?  " 

"  Everything  is  wrong.  Good  night.  You  ought  to 
be  dressing  for  dinner." 

"Come  with  me." 

"  To  dine  with  people  whom  I  hardly  know,  and  who 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  129 

have  not  asked  me?  Besides,  I  told  you  that  I  m^jant 
to  dine  at  home." 

"At  least,  promise  me  that  you  will  go  with  me 
to-morrow  to  the  Villa  Madama." 

"No." 

"Look  here,  Lamberti,"  said  Guido,  changing  his 
tone,  "you  and  I  have  known  each  other  since  we  were 
boys,  and  I  do  not  believe  there  exist  two  men  who  are 
better  friends.  I  am  not  sure  that  the  Contessina  Pal- 
ladio  will  marry  me,  but  her  mother  wishes  it,  and 
heaven  knows  that  I  do.  They  are  both  perfectly  well 
aware  that  you  are  my  most  intimate  friend.  If  you 
absolutely  refuse  to  go  near  them  they  can  only  suppose 
that  you  have  something  against  them.  They  have 
already  asked  me  if  they  are  never  to  see  you.  Now, 
what  will  it  cost  you  to  be  decently  civil  to  a  lady  who 
may  be  my  wife  next  year,  and  to  her  mother,  who  was 
your  mother's  friend  long  ago  ?  You  need  not  stay  half 
an  hour  at  the  villa  unless  you  please.  But  go  with 
me.  Let  them  see  you  with  me.  If  I  really  marry,  do 
you  suppose  I  am  going  to  have  any  one  but  you  for  my 
best  man  ?  " 

Lamberti  listened  to  this  long  speech  without  at- 
tempting to  interrupt  Guido.  Then  he  was  silent  for 
a  few  moments. 

"If  you  put  it  in  that  light,"  he  said,  rising  to  go, 
"I  cannot  refuse.  What  time  shall  you  start?  I  will 
come  here  for  you." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Guido.  "I  should  like  to  get 
there    early.      At    four    o'clock,    I    should    say.      I 


130  CECILIA 

suppose  we  ought  not  to  leave  here  later  than  half- 
past  three." 

"Very  well.  I  shall  be  here  in  plenty  of  time. 
Good  night." 

When  Guido  pressed  his  hand,  it  was  icy  cold. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

On  the  following  morning  Lamberti  went  out  early, 
and  before  nine  o'clock  he  was  in  the  private  study  of 
a  famous  physician,  who  was  a  specialist  for  diseases 
of  the  nerves.  Lamberti  had  never  seen  him  and  had 
not  asked  for  an  appointment,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  his  visit  was  spontaneous  and  unpremeditated.  He 
had  spent  a  wretched  night,  and  it  suddenly  struck  him 
that  he  might  be  ill.  As  he  had  never  been  ill  in  his 
life  except  from  two  or  three  wounds  got  in  fight,  he 
had  been  slow  to  admit  that  anything  could  be  wrong 
with  his  physical  condition.  But  it  was  possible.  The 
strongest  men  sometimes  fell  ill  unaccountably.  A 
good  doctor  would  see  the  truth  at  a  glance. 

The  specialist  was  a  young  man,  squarely  built,  with 
a  fresh  complexion,  smooth  brown  hair,  and  a  well- 
trimmed  chestnut  beard.  At  first  sight,  no  one  would 
have  noticed  anything  remarkable  in  his  appearance, 
except,  perhaps,  that  he  had  unusually  bright  blue  eyes, 
which  had  a  fixed  look  when  he  spoke  earnestly. 

"I  am  a  naval  officer,"  said  Lamberti,  as  he  took  the 
seat  the  doctor  offered  him.  "  Can  you  tell  me  whether 
I  am  ill  or  not?  I  mean,  whether  I  have  any  bodily 
illness.     Then  I  will  explain  what  brings  me." 

131 


132  CECILIA 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  keenly  a  few  seconds,  felt 
his  pulse,  pressed  one  ear  on  his  waistcoat  to  listen  to 
his  heart,  and  then  against  his  back,  made  him  face  the 
light  and  gently  drew  down  the  lower  lids  of  his  eyes, 
and  finally  stood  off  and  made  a  sort  of  general  survey 
of  his  appearance.  Then  he  made  him  stretch  out  one 
hand,  with  the  fingers  spread  out.  There  was  not  the 
least  tremor.  Last  of  all,  he  asked  him  to  shut  his 
eyes  tightly  and  walk  slowly  across  the  room,  turn 
round,  and  walk  back.  Lamberti  did  so,  steadily  and 
quietly. 

"There  is  nothing  wrong  with  your  body,"  said  the 
doctor,  sitting  down.  "Before  you  tell  me  why  you 
come  here,  I  should  like  to  know  one  thing  more.  Do 
you  come  of  sound  and  healthy  people  ?  " 

"Yes.  My  father  is  the  Marchese  Lamberti.  My 
brothers  and  sisters  are  all  alive  and  well.  So  far  as 
I  know,  there  was  never  any  insanity  in  my  family." 

"  Were  your  father  and  mother  cousins  ?  "  enquired 
the  doctor. 

"No." 

"  Very  good.  That  is  all  I  need  to  know.  I  am  at 
your  service.     What  is  the  matter?" 

"If  we  lived  in  the  Middle  Ages,"  said  Lamberti, 
"I  should  say  that  I  was  possessed  by  the  devil,  or 
haunted."     He  stopped  and  laughed  oddly. 

"Why  not  say  so  now?"  asked  the  doctor.  "The 
names  of  things  do  not  matter  in  the  least.  Let  us  say 
that  you  are  haunted,  if  that  describes  what  troubles 
you.     Very  good.     What  haunts  you?" 


A   STORY   OP   MODERN   ROME  133 

"A  young  girl,"  Lamberti  answered,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  see,  or  think  you  see,  the 
apparition  of  a  young  girl  who  is  dead  ? " 

"  She  is  alive,  but  I  have  only  met  her  once.  That 
is  the  strange  thing  about  it,  or,  at  least,  the  beginning 
of  the  strange  thing.  Of  course  it  is  perfectly  absurd, 
but  when  I  first  saw  her,  the  only  time  we  met,  I  had 
the  sensation  of  recognising  some  one  I  had  not  seen 
for  many  years.  As  she  is  only  just  eighteen,  that  is 
impossible." 

"Excuse  me,  my  dear  sir,  nothing  is  impossible. 
Every  one  is  absent-minded  sometimes.  You  may  have 
seen  the  young  lady  in  the  street,  or  at  the  theatre. 
You  may  have  stared  at  her  quite  unconsciously  while 
you  were  thinking  of  something  else,  and  her  features 
may  have  so  impressed  themselves  upon  your  memory, 
without  your  knowing  it,  that  you  actually  recognised 
her  when  you  met  her  in  a  drawing-room." 

"I  daresay,"  admitted  Lamberti,  indifferently. 
"But  that  is  no  reason  why  I  should  dream  of  her 
every  night." 

"  I  am  not  sure.  It  might  be  a  reason.  Such  things 
happen." 

"And  every  night  when  I  wake  from  the  dream,  I 
hear  some  one  close  the  door  of  my  room  softly,  as  if 
she  were  just  going  out.  I  always  lock  my  door  at 
night." 

"Perhaps  it  sometimes  shakes  a  little  in  the  frame." 

"  It  began  at  home.    But  I  have  been  stopping  in  the 


134  CECILIA 

country  nearly  a  fortnight,  and  the  same  thing  has 
happened  every  night." 

"  You  dream  it.  One  may  get  the  habit  of  dreaming 
the  same  dream  every  time  one  sleeps." 

"  It  is  not  always  the  same  dream,  though  the  door  is 
always  closed  softly  when  she  goes  away.  But  there 
is  something  else.  I  was  wrong  in  saying  that  I  only 
met  the  lady  once.  I  should  have  said  that  I  have 
spoken  with  her  only  once.     This  is  how  it  happened." 

Lamberti  told  the  doctor  the  story  of  his  meeting 
Cecilia  at  the  house  of  the  Vestals.  The  specialist  lis- 
tened attentively,  for  he  was  already  convinced  that 
Lamberti  was  a  man  of  solid  reason  and  practical  good 
sense,  probably  the  victim  of  a  series  of  coincidences 
that  had  made  a  strong  impression  on  his  mind.  When 
Lamberti  paused,  there  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"What  do  you  yourself  think  was  the  cause  of  the 
lady's  fright  ?  "  asked  the  doctor  at  last. 

"I  believe  that  she  had  dreamed  the  same  dream," 
Lamberti  answered  without  hesitation. 

"  What  makes  you  believe  anything  so  improbable  ?  " 

"  Well  —  I  hardly  know.  It  is  an  impression.  It 
was  all  so  amazingly  real,  you  see,  and  when  our  eyes 
met,  she  looked  as  if  she  knew  exactly  what  would 
happen  if  she  did  not  run  away  —  exactly  what  had 
happened  in  the  dream." 

"  That  was  on  the  morning  after  you  had  first  dreamt 
it,  you  say.  Of  course  it  helped  very  much  to  strengthen 
the  impression  the  dream  had  made,  and  it  is  not  at 
all  surprising  that  the  dream  should  have  come  again. 


A   STORY    OF   MODERN    ROME  135 

You  know  as  well  as  I,  that  a  dream  which  seems  to 
last  hours  really  passes  in  a  second,  perhaps  in  no  time 
at  all.  The  slightest  sound  in  your  room  which  sug- 
gested the  closing  of  a  door  would  be  enough  to  bring 
it  all  back  before  you  were  awake,  and  the  sound 
might  still  be  audible  to  you." 

"Possibly.     Whatever  it  is,  I  wish  to  get  rid  of  it." 

"It  may  be  merely  coincidence,"  the  doctor  said. 
"I  think  it  is.  But  I  do  not  exclude  the  theory  that 
two  people  who  havfe  made  a  very  strong  impression 
one  on  another,  may  be  the  subjects  of  some  sort  of 
mutual  thought  transference.  We  know  very  little 
about  those  things.  Some  queer  cases  come  under  my 
observation,  but  my  patients  are  never  sound  and  sane 
men  like  you.  What  I  should  like  to  know  is,  why 
did  the  lady  run  away  ?  " 

"That  is  probably  the  one  thing  I  can  never  find 
out,"  Lamberti  answered. 

"There  is  a  very  simple  way.  Ask  her."  The  doc- 
tor smiled.  "Is  it  so  very  hard?"  he  enquired,  as 
Lamberti  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  "I  take  it  for 
granted  that  you  can  find  some  opportunity  of  seeing 
her  in  a  drawing-room,  where  she  cannot  fly  from  you, 
and  will  not  do  anything  to  attract  attention.  What 
could  be  more  natural  than  that  you  should  ask  her 
quite  frankly  why  she  was  so  frightened  the  other  day  ? 
I  do  not  see  how  she  could  possibly  be  offended.  Do 
you  ?  When  you  ask  her,  you  need  not  seem  too  seri- 
ous, as  if  you  attached  a  great  deal  of  importance  to 
what  she  had  done." 


136  CECILIA 

"I  certainly  could  try  it,"  said  Lamberti  thought- 
fully.    "I  shall  see  her  to-day." 

"  She  may  try  to  avoid  you,  because  she  is  ashamed 
of  what  she  did.  But  if  I  were  you,  I  would  not  let  the 
chance  slip.  If  you  succeed  in  talking  to  her  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  break  the  ice,  I  can  almost  promise  that 
you  will  also  break  the  habit  of  this  dream  that  annoys 
you.  Will  you  make  the  attempt?  It  seems  to  me  by 
far  the  wisest  and  most  sensible  remedy,  for  I  am 
nearly  sure  that  it  will  turn  out  to  be  one." 

"  I  daresay  you  are  right.  Is  there  any  other  way  of 
curing  such  habits  of  the  mind  ?  " 

"  I  could  hypnotise  you  and  stop  your  dreaming  by 
suggestion." 

"Nobody  could  make  me  sleep  against  my  will." 
Lamberti  laughed  at  the  mere  idea. 

"No,"  answered  the  doctor,  "but  it  would  not  be 
against  your  will,  if  you  submitted  to  it  as  a  cure. 
However,  try  the  simpler  plan  first,  and  come  and  see 
me  in  a  day  or  two.  You  seem  to  hesitate.  Perhaps 
you  have  some  reason  for  not  wishing  to  make  the 
nearer  acquaintance  of  the  lady.  That  is  your  affair, 
but  one  more  interview  of  a  few  minutes  will  not  make 
much  difference,  as  your  health  is  at  stake.  You  are 
under  a  mental  strain  altogether  out  of  proportion  with 
the  cause  that  produces  it,  and  the  longer  you  allow  it 
to  last  the  stronger  the  reaction  will  be,  when  it  comes." 

"  I  have  no  good  reason  for  not  knowing  her  better, " 
Lamberti  said  after  a  moment's  thought,  for  he  was 
convinced  against  his  previous  determination.     "  I  will 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  137 

take  your  advice,  md  then  I  will  come  and  see  you 
again." 

He  took  his  leave  and  went  out  into  the  bright  morn- 
ing air.  It  was  a  relief  to  feel  that  he  had  been  brought 
to  a  determination  at  last,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  a 
sensible  one,  from  any  ordinary  point  of  view,  and  that 
his  one  great  objection  to  acting  upon  it  had  no  logical 
value. 

But  the  objection  subsisted,  though  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  override  it.  It  was  out  of  the  question 
that  he  could  really  be  in  love  with  Cecilia  Palladio, 
who  was  probably  quite  unlike  what  she  seemed  to  be 
in  his  dreams.  He  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  fancy,  a 
shadow,  an  unreal  image  that  haunted  him  as  soon  as 
he  closed  his  eyes ;  but  when  he  was  wide  awake  and 
busy  with  life  the  girl  was  nothing  to  him  but  a  mere 
acquaintance.  His  pulse  would  not  beat  as  fast  when 
he  met  her  that  very  afternoon  as  it  had  done  just  now, 
in  the  doctor's  study,  when  he  had  been  thinking  of  the 
vision. 

Besides,  what  Guido  had  said  was  quite  true.  He 
could  not  possibly  continue  not  to  know  Guido's  future 
wife ;  and  as  there  was  no  danger  of  his  falling  in  love 
with  her  when  his  eyes  were  open,  he  really  could  not 
see  why  he  should  be  so  anxious  to  avoid  her.  So  the 
matter  was  settled.  He  took  a  long  walk,  far  out  of 
Porta  San  Giovanni,  and  turned  to  the  right  by  the  road 
that  leads  through  the  fields  to  the  tomb  of  Cecilia 
Metella. 

As  he  passed  the  great  round  monument,  swinging 


138  CECILIA 

along  steadily,  its  name  naturally  came  to  his  mind, 
and  it  occurred  to  him  for  the  first  time  that  Cecilia 
had  been  a  noble  name  among  the  old  Romans,  that  it 
had  come  down  unchanged,  and  that  there  had  doubt- 
less been  more  than  one  Vestal  Virgin  who  had  borne 
it.  The  Vestal  in  his  dream  was  certainly  called  Ce- 
cilia. He  was  in  the  humour,  now,  to  smile  at  what 
he  called  his  own  folly,  and  as  he  strode  along  he 
almost  laughed  aloud.  Before  the  sun  should  set,  the 
whole  matter  would  be  definitely  at  rest,  and  he  would 
be  wondering  how  he  could  ever  have  been  foolish 
enough  to  attach  any  importance  to  it.  He  followed 
the  Appian  Way  back  to  the  city,  with  a  light  heart. 


CHAPTER  IX 

The  Villa  Madama  was  probably  never  inhabited, 
for  it  was  certainly  never  quite  finished,  and  the  grand 
staircase  was  not  rebuilt  after  Cardinal  Pompeo  Colonna 
set  fire  to  the  house.  That  was  in  the  wild  days  when 
Rome  was  sacked  by  the  Constable  of  Bourbon's 
Spaniards  and  Franzperg's  Germans,  and  Pope  Clem- 
ent the  Seventh  was  shut  up  in  the  stronghold  of  Sant' 
Angelo ;  and  at  nightfall  he  looked  from  the  windows  of 
the  fortress  and  saw  the  flames  shoot  up  on  the  slope  of 
Monte  Mario,  from  the  beautiful  place  which  Raphael 
of  Urbino  had  designed  for  him,  and  which  Giovanni 
of  Udine  had  decorated,  and  he  told  those  who  were 
with  him  that  Cardinal  Colonna  was  revenging  himself 
for  his  castles  sacked  and  burned  by  the  Pope's  orders. 

That  was  nearly  four  hundred  years  ago,  and  the 
great  exterior  staircase  was  never  rebuilt ;  but  in  order 
to  save  that  part  of  the  little  palace  from  ruin  unsightly 
arches  were  reared  up  against  the  once  beautiful  wing, 
and  because  of  Giulio  Romano's  frescoes  and  Giovanni 
of  Udine's  marvellous  stucco  work,  the  roof  has  been 
always  kept  in  good  repair.  Moreover,  a  good  deal  has 
been  written  about  the  building,  some  of  which  is  inac- 
curate, to  say  the  least ;  as,  for  instance,  that  one  may 
see   the   dome   of  Saint   Peter's    from  the   windows, 

139 


140  CECILIA 

whereas  the  villa  stands  halfway  down  the  slope  of 
the  hill  on  the  side  which  is  away  from  the  church,  and 
looks  towards  the  Sabines  and  towards  Tivoli  and 
Frascati. 

Those  who  have  taken  the  trouble  to  visit  the  villa 
in  its  half -ruinous  condition,  and  who  have  lingered  on 
the  grass-grown  terraces  and  at  the  noble  windows,  on 
spring  afternoons,  when  the  sun  is  behind  the  hill,  can 
easily  guess  what  it  became  when  it  passed  into  the 
ownership  of  the  Contessina  Cecilia  Palladio.  Her 
guardian,  the  excellent  Baron  Goldbirn,  had  bought  it 
for  her  because  it  was  offered  for  sale  at  a  low  price, 
and  was  an  excellent  investment  as  well  as  a  treasure 
of  art;  and  he  had  purposed  to  coat  the  brown  stone 
walls  with  fresh  stucco,  to  erect  a  "belvedere"  with 
nice  green  blinds  on  the  roof,  to  hang  the  rooms  with 
rich  magenta  damask,  to  carpet  them  with  Brussels  car- 
pets, to  furnish  them  with  gilt  furniture,  to  warm  the 
house  with  steam  heat,  and  to  light  it  with  electricity. 

To  his  surprise,  his  ward  rejected  each  of  these  pro- 
posals in  detail  and  all  of  them  generally,  and  declared 
that  since  the  villa  was  hers  she  could  deal  with  it  ac- 
cording to  her  own  taste,  which,  she  maintained,  was 
better  than  Goldbirn 's.  The  latter  answered  that  as  he 
was  sixty-five  years  old  and  Cecilia  was  only  eighteen, 
this  was  impossible ;  but  that  under  the  circumstances 
he  washed  his  hands  of  the  matter,  only  warning  her 
that  the  Italian  law  would  not  allow  her  to  cut  down 
the  trees  more  than  once  in  nine  years. 

"  As  if  anything  could  induce  me  to  cut  them  down 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  141 

at  all ! "  Cecilia  answered  indignantly.  "  There  are 
few  enough  as  it  is !  " 

"My  dear,"  the  Countess  had  answered  with  admi- 
rable relevancy,  "  I  hope  you  are  not  ungrateful  to  your 
guardian." 

Cecilia  was  not  ungrateful,  but  she  had  her  own  way, 
for  it  was  preordained  that  she  generally  should,  and 
it  was  well  for  the  Villa  Madama  that  it  was  so.  She 
only  asked  her  guardian  how  much  he  would  allow  her 
to  spend  on  the  place,  and  then,  to  his  amazement  and 
satisfaction,  she  only  spent  half  the  sum  he  named. 
She  easily  persuaded  a  good  artist,  whom  her  step- 
father had  helped  at  the  beginning  of  his  career,  to  take 
charge  of  the  work,  and  it  was  carried  out  with  loving 
and  reverent  taste.  The  wilderness  of  sloping  land 
became  a  garden,  the  beautiful  "  court  of  honour  "  was 
so  skilfully  restored  with  old  stone  and  brick  that  the 
restoration  could  hardly  be  detected,  the  great  exterior 
staircase  was  rebuilt,  the  close  garden  on  the  other  side 
was  made  a  carpet  of  flowers;  the  water  that  gushed 
abundantly  from  a  deep  spring  in  the  hillside  poured 
into  an  old  fountain  bought  from  the  remains  of  a  villa 
in  the  Campagna,  and  then,  below,  filled  the  vast  square 
basin  that  already  existed,  and  thence  it  was  distributed 
through  the  lower  grounds.  There  were  roses  every- 
where, already  beginning  to  climb,  and  the  scent  of  a 
few  young  orange  trees  in  blossom  mingled  delicately 
with  the  odour  of  the  flowers.  Within  the  house  the 
floor  of  the  great  hall  was  paved  with  plain  white  tiles, 
and  up  to  the  cornice  and  between  the  marvellous  pilas- 


142  CECILIA 

ters  the  bare  walls  were  hung  with  coarse  linen  woven 
in  simple  and  tasteful  patterns  and  in  subdued  colours. 
The  little  gods  and  goddesses  and  the  emblematic 
figures  of  the  seasons  in  the  glorious  vaults  overhead, 
smiled  down  upon  such  a  scene  as  had  not  rejoiced  the 
great  hall  for  centuries.  The  Countess  had  asked  all 
Rome  to  come,  with  an  admirable  indifference  to  politi- 
cal parties  and  social  discords ;  and  all  Rome  came,  as 
it  sometimes  does,  in  the  best  of  tempers  with  itself 
and  with  its  hostess.  Roman  society  is  good  to  look 
at,  when  it  is  gathered  together  in  such  ways ;  for  mere 
looks,  there  is  perhaps  nothing  better  in  all  Europe, 
except  in  England.  The  French  are  more  brilliant,  no 
doubt,  for  their  women,  and,  alas,  their  men  also, 
affect  a  greater  variety  of  dress  and  ornament  than  any 
other  people.  German  society  is  magnificent  with 
military  uniforms,  Austrians  generally  have  very  per- 
fect taste;  and  so  on,  to  each  its  own  advantage.  But 
the  Romans  have  something  of  their  own,  a  beauty  most 
distinctly  theirs,  a  sort  of  distinction  that  is  genuine 
and  unaffected,  but  which  nevertheless  seems  to  belong 
to  more  splendid  times  than  ours.  When  the  women  are 
beautiful,  and  they  often  are,  they  are  like  the  pictures 
in  their  own  galleries;  among  the  men  there  are  heads 
and  faces  that  remind  one  of  Lionardo  da  Vinci,  of 
Caesar  Borgia,  of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  of  Guidarello 
Guidarelli,  even  of  Michelangelo.  Romans,  at  their 
best,  have  about  them  a  grave  suavity,  or  a  suave 
gravity,  that  is  a  charm  in  itself,  with  a  perfect  self- 
possession  which  is   the  very  opposite  of  arrogance  | 


A   STORY   OF   MODERISr   ROME  143 

when  they  laugh,  their  mirth  is  real,  though  a  little 
subdued  ;  when  they  are  grave,  they  do  not  look  dull ; 
when  they  are  in  deep  earnest,  they  are  not  theatrical. 

Those  who  went  to  the  Fortiguerra  garden  party 
never  quite  forgot  the  impression  they  received.  It 
was  one  of  those  events  that  are  remembered  as  memo- 
rable social  successes,  and  spoken  of  after  many  years. 
It  was  unlike  anything  that  had  ever  been  done  in 
Rome  before,  unlike  the  solemn  receptions  of  the  chief 
of  the  clericals,  when  the  cardinals  come  in  state  and 
are  escorted  by  torch-bearers  from  their  carriages  to  the 
entrance  of  the  great  drawing-room,  and  back  again 
when  they  go  away ;  unlike  the  supremely  magnificent 
balls  in  honour  of  the  foreign  sovereigns  who  occasion- 
ally spend  a  week  in  Rome,  and  are  amusingly  ready  to 
accept  the  hospitality  of  Roman  princes;  most  of  all, 
it  was  unlike  an  ordinary  garden  party,  because  the 
Villa  Madama  is  quite  unlike  ordinary  villas. 

Moreover,  every  one  was  pleased  that  such  very  rich 
people  should  not  attempt  to  surprise  society  by  vulgar 
display.  There  were  no  state  liveries,  there  were  no 
ostentatious  armorial  bearings,  there  was  no  overpower- 
ing show  of  silver  and  gold,  there  was  no  Hungarian 
band  brought  expressly  from  Vienna,  nor  any  fashion- 
able pianist  paid  to  play  about  five  thousand  notes  at 
about  a  franc  apiece,  to  the  great  annoyance  of  all  the 
people  who  preferred  conversation  to  music.  Every- 
thing was  simple,  everything  was  good,  everything  was 
beautiful,  from  the  entrancing  view  of  Rome  beyond 
the  yellow  river,  and  of  the  undulating  Campagna 


144  CECILIA 

beyond,  with  the  soft  hills  in  the  far  distance,  to  the 
lovely  flowers  in  the  garden ;  from  the  flowers  without, 
to  the  stately  halls  within ;  from  their  charming  fres- 
coes and  exquisite  white  traceries,  to  the  lovely  girl  who 
was  the  centre,  and  the  reason,  and  the  soul  of  it  all. 

Her  mother  received  the  guests  out  of  doors,  in  the 
close  garden,  and  thirty  or  forty  people  were  already 
there  when  Guido  d'Este  and  Lamberti  arrived;  for 
every  one  came  early,  fearing  lest  the  air  might  be 
chilly  towards  sunset.  The  Countess  introduced  the 
men  and  the  young  girls  to  her  daughter,  and  presented 
her  to  the  married  women.  Presently,  when  the  gar- 
den became  too  full,  the  people  would  go  back  through 
the  house  and  wander  away  about  the  grounds,  lighting 
up  the  shadowed  hillside  with  colour,  and  filling  the 
air  with  the  sound  of  their  voices.  They  would  stray 
far  out,  as  far  as  the  little  grove  on  the  knoll,  planted  in 
old  times  for  the  old-fashioned  sport  of  netting  birds. 

Guido  had  told  Cecilia  on  the  previous  evening  that 
his  friend  had  returned  from  the  country  and  was  com- 
ing to  the  villa,  and  he  had  again  seen  the  very  slight 
contraction  of  her  brows  at  the  mere  mention  of  Lam- 
berti's  name.  He  wondered  whether  there  were  not 
some  connection  between  what  he  took  for  her  dislike 
of  Lamberti,  and  the  latter's  strong  disinclination  to 
meet  her.  Perhaps  Lamberti  had  guessed  at  a  glance 
that  she  would  not  like  him.  He  would  of  course  keep 
such  an  opinion  to  himself. 

Guido  watched  Cecilia  narrowly  from  the  moment 
she  caught  sight  of  him  with  Lamberti  —  so  attentively 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN    ROME  145 

indeed  that  he  did  not  even  glance  at  the  latter's  face. 
It  was  set  like  a  mask,  and  under  the  tanned  colour 
any  one  could  see  that  the  man  turned  pale. 

"You  know  Cecilia  already,"  said  the  Countess  For- 
tiguerra,  pleasantly.  "  I  hope  the  rest  of  your  family 
are  coming?  " 

"I  think  they  are  all  coming,"  Lamberti  answered 
very  mechanically. 

He  had  resolutely  looked  at  the  Countess  until  now, 
but  he  felt  the  daughter's  eyes  upon  him,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  meet  them,  if  only  for  a  single  instant.  The 
last  time  he  had  met  their  gaze  she  had  cried  aloud  and 
had  fled  from  him  in  terror.  He  would  have  given 
much  to  turn  from  her  now,  without  a  glance,  and 
mingle  with  the  other  guests. 

He  was  perfectly  cool  and  self-possessed,  as  he  after- 
wards remembered,  but  he  felt  that  it  was  the  sort  of 
coolness  which  always  came  upon  him  in  moments  of 
supreme  danger.  It  was  familiar  to  him,  for  he  had 
been  in  many  hand-to-hand  engagements  in  wild  coun- 
tries, and  he  knew  that  it  would  not  forsake  him;  but 
he  missed  the  thrill  of  rare  delight  that  made  him  love 
fighting  as  he  loved  no  sport  he  had  ever  tried.  This 
was  more  like  walking  bravely  to  certain  death. 

Cecilia  was  all  in  white,  but  her  face  was  whiter 
than  the  silk  she  wore,  and  as  motionless  as  marble; 
and  her  fixed  eyes  shone  with  an  almost  dazzling  light. 
Guido  saw  and  wondered.  Then  he  heard  Lamberti's 
voice,  steady,  precise,  and  metallic  as  the  notes  of  a 
bell  striking  the  hour. 


146  CECILIA 

"I  hope  to  see  something  of  you  by-and-by,  Signorina." 

Cecilia's  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  came  from  them. 
Then  Guido  was  sure  that  they  smiled  perceptibly,  and 
she  bent  her  head  in  assent,  but  so  slightly  that  her 
eyes  were  still  fixed  on  Lamberti's. 

Other  guests  came  up  at  that  moment,  and  the  two 
friends  made  way  for  them. 

"Come  back  through  the  house,"  said  Guido,  in  a 
low  voice. 

Lamberti  followed  him  into  the  great  hall,  and  to  the 
left  through  the  next,  where  there  was  no  one,  and  out 
to  a  small  balcony  beyond.  Then  both  stood  still  and 
faced  each  other,  and  the  silence  lasted  a  few  seconds. 
Guido  spoke  first. 

"What  has  there  been  between  you  two?"  he  asked, 
with  something  like  sternness  in  his  tone. 

"This  is  the  second  time  in  my  life  that  I  have 
spoken  to  the  Contessina,"  Lamberti  answered. 
"The  first  time  I  ever  saw  her  was  at  your  aunt's 
house." 

Guido  had  never  doubted  the  word  of  Lamberto  Lam- 
berti, but  he  could  not  doubt  the  evidence  of  his  own 
senses  either,  and  he  had  watched  Cecilia's  face.  It 
seemed  utterly  impossible  that  she  should  look  as  she 
had  looked  just  now,  unless  there  were  some  very 
grave  matter  between  her  and  Lamberti.  All  sorts  of 
horrible  suspicions  clouded  Guide's  brain,  all  sorts  of 
reasons  why  Lamberti  should  lie  to  him,  this  once,  this 
only  time.     Yet  he  spoke  quietly  enough. 

"  It  is  very  strange  that  two  people  should  behave  as 


A  STOBY   OF   MODERN   ROME  147 

you  and  she  do,  when  you  meet,  if  you  have  only  met 
twice.     It  is  past  my  comprehension." 

"It  is  very  strange,"  Lamberti  repeated. 

"So  strange,"  said  Guido,  "that  it  is  very  hard  to 
believe.     You  are  asking  a  great  deal  of  me." 

"I  have  asked  nothing,  my  friend.  You  put  a  ques- 
tion to  me,  —  a  reasonable  question,  I  admit,  —  and  I 
have  answered  you  with  the  truth.  I  have  never 
touched  that  young  lady's  hand,  I  have  only  spoken 
with  her  twice  in  my  life,  and  not  alone  on  either  oc- 
casion. I  did  not  wish  to  come  here  to-day,  but  you 
practically  forced  me  to." 

"  You  did  not  wish  to  come,  because  you  knew  what 
would  happen,"  Guido  answered  coldly. 

"How  could  I  know?" 

"  That  is  the  question.  But  you  did  know,  and  until 
you  are  willing  to  explain  to  me  how  you  knew  it  —  " 

He  stopped  short  and  looked  hard  at  Lamberti,  as  if 
the  latter  must  understand  the  rest.  His  usually  gentle 
and  thoughtful  face  was  as  hard  and  stern  as  stone. 
Until  lately  his  friendship  for  Lamberti  had  been  by 
far  the  strongest  and  most  lasting  affection  of  his  life. 
The  thought  that  it  was  to  be  suddenly  broken  and 
ended  by  an  atrocious  deception  was  hard  to  bear. 

"You  mean  that  if  I  cannot  explain,  as  you  call  it, 
you  and  I  are  to  be  like  strangers.  Is  that  what  you 
mean,  Guido?    Speak  out,  man!     Let  us  be  plain." 

Guido  was  silent  for  a  while,  leaning  over  the  bal- 
cony and  looking  down,  while  Lamberti  stood  upright 
and  waited  for  his  answer. 


148  CECILIA 

"How  can  I  act  otherwise?"  asked  Guido,  at  last, 
without  looking  up.  "  You  would  do  the  same  in  my 
place.     So  would  any  man  of  honour." 

"I  should  try  to  believe  you,  whatever  you  said." 

"And  if  you  could  not?"  Guido  enquired  almost 
fiercely. 

It  was  very  nearly  an  insult,  but  Lamberti  answered 
quietly  and  firmly. 

"Before  refusing  to  believe  me,  merely  on  apparent 
evidence,  you  can  ask  the  Contessina  herself." 

"  As  if  a  woman  could  tell  the  truth  when  a  man  will 
not!  "     Guido  laughed  harshly. 

"  You  forget  that  you  love  her,  and  that  she  probably 
loves  you.     That  should  make  a  difference." 

"  What  do  you  wish  me  to  do  ?  Ask  her  the  question 
you  will  not  answer?  " 

"The  question  I  have  answered,"  said  Lamberti,  cor- 
recting him.     "Yes.     Ask  her." 

"Your  mother  was  an  old  friend  of  her  mother's," 
Guido  said,  with  a  new  thought. 

"Yes." 

"  Why  is  it  impossible  that  you  two  should  have  met 
before  now  ?  " 

"  Because  I  tell  you  that  we  have  not.  If  we  had,  I 
should  not  have  any  reason  for  hiding  the  fact.  It 
would  be  much  easier  to  explain,  if  we  had.  But  I 
am  not  going  to  argue  about  the  matter,  for  it  is  quite 
useless.  Before  you  quarrel  with  me,  go  and  ask  the 
Contessina  to  explain,  if  she  will,  or  can.  If  she  can- 
not, or  if  she  can  and  will  not,  I  shall  try  to  make 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  149 

you  understand  as  much  as  I  do,  though  that  is  very 
little." 

Guido  listened  without  attempting  to  interrupt.  He 
was  not  a  rash  or  violent  man,  and  he  valued  Lamberti's 
friendship  far  too  highly  to  forfeit  it  without  the  most 
convincing  reasons.  Unfortunately,  what  he  had  seen 
would  have  convinced  an  even  less  suspicious  man  that 
there  was  a  secret  which  his  friend  shared  with  Cecilia, 
and  which  both  had  an  object  in  concealing  from  him. 
Lamberti  ceased  speaking  and  a  long  silence  followed, 
for  he  had  nothing  more  to  say. 

At  last  Guido  straightened  himself  with  an  evident 
effort,  as  if  he  had  forced  himself  to  decide  the  matter, 
but  he  did  not  look  at  Lamberti. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.     "I  will  speak  to  her." 

Lamberti  bent  his  head,  silently  acknowledging 
Guido's  sensible  conclusion.  Then  Guido  turned  and 
went  away  alone.  It  was  long  before  Lamberti  left  the 
balcony,  for  he  was  glad  of  the  solitude  and  the  chance 
of  quietly  thinking  over  his  extraordinary  situation. 

Meanwhile  Guido  found  it  no  easy  matter  to  approach 
Cecilia  at  all,  and  it  looked  as  if  it  would  be  quite  im- 
possible to  speak  with  her  alone.  He  went  back  through 
the  great  hall  where  people  were  beginning  to  gather 
about  the  tea-table,  and  he  stood  in  the  vast  door  that 
opens  upon  the  close  garden.  Cecilia  was  still  stand- 
ing beside  her  mother,  but  they  were  surrounded  by  a 
group  of  people  who  all  seemed  to  be  trying  to  talk  to 
them  at  once.  The  garden  was  crowded,  and  it  would 
be  impossible  for  Guido  to  get  near  them  without  talk- 


150  CECILIA 

ing  his  way,  so  to  say,  through  countless  acquaintances. 
By  this  time,  however,  most  of  the  guests  had  arrived, 
and  those  who  were  in  the  inner  garden  would  soon 
begin  to  go  out  to  the  grounds. 

Cecilia  was  no  longer  pale ;  on  the  contrary,  she  had 
more  colour  than  usual,  and  delicate  though  the  slight 
flush  in  her  cheeks  was,  it  looked  a  little  feverish  to 
Guido.  As  he  began  to  make  his  way  forward  he  tried 
to  catch  her  eye,  but  he  thought  she  purposely  avoided 
an  exchange  of  glances.  At  last  he  was  beside  her, 
and  to  his  surprise  she  looked  at  him  quite  naturally, 
and  answered  him  without  embarrassment. 

"  You  must  be  tired, "  he  said.  "  Will  you  not  sit 
down  for  a  little  while  ?  " 

"I  should  like  to,"  she  answered,  smiling. 

Then  she  looked  at  her  mother,  and  seemed  to  hesitate. 

"  May  I  go  and  sit  down  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 
"I  am  so  tired!  " 

"  Of  course,  child !  "  answered  the  Countess,  cheer- 
fully. "Signer  d'Este  will  take  you  to  the  seat  over 
there  by  the  fountain.  I  hardly  think  that  any  one 
else  will  come  now." 

Guido  and  Cecilia  moved  away,  and  the  Countess 
smiled  affectionately  at  their  backs.  Some  one  said 
that  they  were  a  very  well-matched  pair,  and  another 
asked  if  it  were  true  that  Signer  d'Este  would  inherit 
the  Princess  Anatolie's  fortune  at  her  death.  A  third 
observed  that  she  would  never  die ;  and  a  fourth,  who 
was  going  to  dine  with  her  that  evening,  said  that  she 
was   a  very  charming  woman;  whereupon  everybody 


A   STORY   OF    MODERN   ROME  151 

laughed  a  little,  and  the  Countess  changed  the  sub- 
ject. 

Cecilia  was  really  tired,  and  gave  a  little  sigh  of 
satisfaction  as  she  sat  down  and  leaned  back.  Guido 
looked  at  her  and  hesitated. 

"  I  must  have  shaken  hands  with  at  least  two  hun- 
dred people,"  she  said,  "and  I  am  sure  I  have  spoken 
to  as  many  more !  " 

"  Do  you  like  it  ?"  Guido  asked,  by  way  of  gaining  time. 

"  What  an  idle  question !  "  laughed  Cecilia. 

"I  had  another  to  ask  you,"  he  answered  gravely. 
"Not  an  idle  one." 

She  looked  at  him  quickly,  wondering  whether  he 
was  going  to  ask  her  to  be  his  wife,  and  wondering,  too, 
what  she  should  answer  if  he  did.  For  some  days  past 
she  had  understood  that  what  they  called  their  compact 
of  friendship  was  becoming  a  mere  comedy  on  his  side, 
if  not  on  hers,  and  that  he  loved  her  with  all  his  heart, 
though  he  had  not  told  her  so. 

"It  is  rather  an  odd  question,"  he  continued,  as  she 
said  nothing.  "  You  have  not  formally  given  me  any 
right  to  ask  it,  and  yet  I  feel  that  I  have  the  right,  all 
the  same." 

"Friendship  gives  rights,  and  takes  them,"  Cecilia 
answered  thoughtfully. 

"Exactly.  That  is  what  I  feel  about  it.  That  is 
why  I  think  I  may  ask  you  something  that  may  seem 
strange.  At  all  events,  I  cannot  go  on  living  in  doubt 
about  the  answer. " 

"Is  it  as  important  as  that?  "  asked  the  young  girl. 


152  CECILIA 

"Yes." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Wait  a  moment.  Let  these  people  pass.  How  in 
the  world  did  you  succeed  in  getting  so  many  roses  to 
grow  in  such  a  short  time  ?  " 

"You  must  ask  the  gardener,"  Cecilia  answered,  in 
order  to  say  something  while  a  young  couple  passed 
before  the  bench,  evidently  very  much  absorbed  in  each 
other's  conversation. 

Guido  bent  forward,  resting  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
and  not  looking  at  her,  but  turning  his  face  a  little,  so 
that  he  could  speak  in  a  very  low  tone  with  an  outward 
appearance  of  carelessness.  It  was  very  hard  to  put  the 
question,  after  all,  now  that  he  was  so  near  her,  and 
felt  her  thrilling  presence. 

"Our  agreement  is  a  failure,"  he  began.  "At  all 
events,  it  is  one  on  my  side.  I  really  did  not  think  it 
would  turn  out  as  it  has." 

She  said  nothing,  and  he  knew  that  she  did  not  move, 
and  was  looking  at  the  people  in  the  distance.  He 
knew,  also,  that  she  understood  him  and  had  expected 
something  of  the  sort.  That  made  it  a  little  easier  to 
go  on. 

"  That  is  the  reason  why  I  am  going  to  ask  you  this 
question.  What  has  there  ever  been  between  you  and 
Lamberti  ?  Why  do  you  turn  deathly  pale  when  you 
meet  him,  and  why  does  he  try  to  avoid  you  ?  " 

He  heard  her  move  now,  and  he  slowly  turned  his 
face  till  he  could  see  hers.  The  colour  in  her  cheeks 
had  deepened  a  little,  and  there  was  an  angry  light  in 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  158 

her  eyes  which  he  had  never  seen  there.  But  she  said 
not  a  word  in  answer. 

"  Do  you  love  him  ?  "  Guido  asked  in  a  very  low  tone, 
and  his  voice  trembled  slightly. 

"No!  "     The  word  came  with  sharp  energy. 

"  How  long  have  you  known  him  ?  "  Guido  enquired. 

"  Since  I  have  known  you.  I  met  him  first  on  the 
same  day.  I  have  not  spoken  with  him  since.  I  tried 
to-day,  I  could  not." 

"Why  not?" 

"Do  not  ask  me.     I  cannot  tell  you." 

"  Are  you  speaking  the  truth  ?  "  Guido  asked,  sud- 
denly meeting  her  eyes. 

She  drew  back  with  a  quick  movement,  deeply 
offended  and  angry  at  the  brutal  question. 

"  How  dare  you  doubt  what  I  tell  you  I  "  She  seemed 
about  to  rise. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  humbly.  " I  really  beg 
your  pardon.  It  is  all  so  strange.  I  hardly  knew 
what  I  was  saying.     Please  forgive  me !  " 

"I  will  try,"  Cecilia  answered.  "But  I  think*  I 
would  rather  go  back  now.     We  cannot  talk  here." 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  but  Guido  tried  to  detain  her, 
remaining  seated  and  looking  up. 

"Please,  please  stay  a  little  longer!  "  he  pleaded. 

"No." 

"  You  are  still  angry  with  me  ?  " 

"No.  But  I  cannot  talk  to  you  yet.  If  you  do  not 
come  with  me,  I  shall  go  back  alone." 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done.     He  rose  and  walked 


164  CECILIA 

by  her  side  in  silence.  The  garden  was  almost  empty 
now,  and  the  Countess  herself  had  gone  in  to  get  a  cup 
of  tea. 

"The  roses  are  really  marvellous,"  Guido  remarked 
in  a  set  tone,  as  they  came  to  the  door. 

Suddenly  they  were  face  to  face  with  Lamberti,  who 
was  coming  out,  hat  in  hand.  He  had  waited  for  his 
opportunity,  watching  them  from  a  distance,  and  Guido 
knew  it  instinctively.  He  was  quite  cool  and  col- 
lected, and  smiled  pleasantly  as  he  spoke  to  Cecilia. 

"  May  I  not  have  the  pleasure  of  talking  with  you  a 
little,  Signorina  ?  "  he  asked. 

Guido  could  not  help  looking  anxiously  at  the  young 
girl. 

"Certainly,"  she  answered,  without  hesitation. 
"  You  will  find  my  mother  near  the  tea  table,  Signor 
d'Este,"  she  added,  to  Guido.  "It  is  really  time  that 
I  should  make  your  friend's  acquaintance !  " 

He  was  as  much  amazed  at  her  self-possession  now  as 
he  had  been  at  her  evident  disturbance  before.  He 
drew  back  as  Cecilia  turned  away  from  him  after  speak- 
ing, and  he  stood  looking  after  the  pair  a  few  seconds 
before  he  went  in.  At  that  moment  he  would  have 
gladly  strangled  the  man  who  had  so  long  been  his  best 
friend.  He  had  never  guessed  that  he  could  wish  to 
kill  any  one. 

Lamberti  did  not  make  vague  remarks  about  the 
roses  as  Guido  had  done,  on  the  mere  chance  that  some 
one  might  hear  him,  and  indeed  there  was  now  hardly 
anybody  to  hear.     As  for  Cecilia,  her  anger  against 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  165 

Guido  had  sustained  her  at  first,  but  she  could  not  have 
talked  unconcernedly  now,  as  she  walked  beside  Lam- 
berti,  waiting  for  him  to  speak.  She  felt  just  then  that 
she  would  have  walked  on  and  on,  whithersoever  he 
chose  to  lead  her,  and  until  it  pleased  him  to  stop. 

"D'Este  asked  me  this  afternoon  how  long  I  had 
known  you,"  he  said,  at  last.  "I  said  that  I  had 
spoken  with  you  twice,  once  at  the  Princess's,  and 
once  to-day.     Was  that  right?" 

"  Yes.     Did  he  believe  you  ?  " 

"No." 

"He  did  not  believe  me  either." 

"  And  of  course  he  asked  you  what  there  was  between 
us,"  said  Lamberti. 

"  Yes.  I  said  that  I  could  not  tell  him.  What  did 
you  say?" 

"The  same  thing." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  both  realised  that  they  were 
talking  as  if  they  had  known  each  other  for  years,  and 
that  they  understood  each  other  almost  without  words. 
At  the  end  of  the  walk  they  turned  towards  one  another, 
and  their  eyes  met. 

"  Why  did  you  run  away  from  me  ?  "  Lamberti  asked. 

"I  was  frightened.  I  was  frightened  to-day  when 
you  spoke  to  me.  Why  did  you  go  to  the  Forum  that 
morning  ?  " 

"  I  had  dreamt  something  strange  about  you.  It  hap- 
pened just  where  I  found  you." 

"I  dreamt  the  same  dream,  the  same  night.  That 
is,  I  think  it  must  have  been  the  same." 


156  CECILIA 

She  turned  her  face  away,  blushing  red. 

He  saw,  and  understood. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "What  am  I  to  tell  d'Este?"  he 
asked,  after  a  short  pause. 

"Nothing!  "  said  Cecilia  quickly,  and  the  subsiding 
blush  rose  again.  "Besides,"  she  continued,  speaking 
rapidly  in  her  embarrassment,  "he  would  not  believe 
us,  whatever  we  told  him,  and  it  is  of  no  use  to  let  him 
know  —  "  she  stopped  suddenly. 

"Has  he  no  right  to  know?" 

"No.    At  least — no — I  think  not.    I  do  not  mean  —  " 

They  were  standing  still,  facing  each  other.  In 
another  moment  she  would  be  telling  Lamberti  what 
she  had  never  told  Guido  about  her  feelings  towards 
him.  On  a  sudden  she  turned  away  with  a  sort  of  des- 
perate movement,  clasping  her  hands  and  looking  over 
the  low  wall. 

"Oh,  what  is  it  all?"  she  cried,  in  great  distress. 
"I  am  in  the  dream  again,  talking  as  if  I  had  known 
you  all  my  life  1     What  must  you  think  of  me  ?  " 

Lamberti  stood  beside  her,  resting  his  hands  upon 
the  wall. 

"It  is  exactly  what  I  feel,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Then  you  dream,  too?"  she  asked. 

"Every  night  —  of  you." 

"  We  are  both  dreaming  now !  I  am  sure  of  it.  I 
shall  wake  up  in  the  dark  and  hear  the  door  shut  softly, 
though  I  always  lock  it  now." 

"The  door?  Do  you  hear  that,  too?"  asked  Lam- 
berti.     "But  I  am  wide  awake  when  I  hear  it." 


A   STORY   OF   MODERK   ROME  157 

"  So  am  I !  Sometimes  I  can  manage  to  turn  up  the 
electric  light  before  the  sound  has  quite  stopped.  Are 
we  both  mad  ?  What  is  it  ?  In  the  name  of  Heaven, 
what  is  it  all?" 

"  I  wish  I  knew.  Whatever  it  is,  if  you  and  I  meet 
often,  it  is  quite  impossible  that  we  should  talk  like 
ordinary  acquaintances.  Yes,  I  thought  I  was  going 
mad,  and  this  morning  I  went  to  a  great  doctor  and 
told  him  everything.  He  seemed  to  think  it  was  all  a 
set  of  coincidences.  He  advised  me  to  see  you  and  ask 
you  why  you  ran  away  that  day,  and  he  thought  that  if 
we  talked  about  it,  I  might  perhaps  not  dream  again." 

"You  are  not  mad,  you  are  not  mad!  "  Cecilia  re- 
peated the  words  in  a  low  voice,  almost  mechanically. 

Then  there  was  silence,  and  presently  she  turned 
from  the  wall  and  began  to  walk  back  along  the  wide 
path  that  passed  by  the  central  fountain.  The  sun, 
long  out  of  sight  behind  the  hill,  was  sinking  now,  the 
thin  violet  mist  had  begun  to  rise  from  the  Campagna 
far  to  south  and  east,  and  the  mountains  had  taken  the 
first  tinge  of  evening  purple.  From  the  ilex  woods 
a-bove  the  house,  the  voice  of  a  nightingale  rang  out  in 
a  long  and  delicious  trill.  The  garden  was  deserted, 
and  now  and  then  the  sound  of  women's  laughter 
rippled  out  through  the  high,  open  door. 

"We  must  meet  soon,"  Lamberti  said,  as  they 
reached  the  fountain. 

It  seemed  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  that 
he  should  say  it.  She  stopped  and  looked  at  him,  and 
recognised  every  feature  of  the  face  she  had  seen  in  her 


158  CECILIA 

dreams  almost  ever  since  she  could  remember  dreaming. 
Her  fear  was  all  gone  now,  and  she  was  sure  that  it 
would  never  come  back.  Had  she  not  heard  him  say 
those  very  words,  "We  must  meet  soon,"  hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  times,  just  as  he  had  said  them  long  ago 
—  ever  so  long  ago  —  in  a  language  that  she  could  not 
remember  when  she  was  awake  ?  And  had  they  not 
always  met  soon  ? 

"I  shall  see  you  to-night,"  she  answered,  almost 
unconsciously. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  looking  into  the  clear  water  in 
the  fountain,  "does  your  dreaming  make  you  restless 
and  nervous  ?     Does  it  wear  on  you  ?  " 

"  Oh  no !  I  have  always  dreamt  a  great  deal  all  my 
life.     I  rest  just  as  well." 

"  Yes  —  but  those  were  ordinary  dreams.     I  mean  —  " 

"No,  they  were  always  the  same.  They  were  always 
about  you.  I  almost  screamed  when  I  recognised  you 
at  the  Princess's  that  afternoon." 

"I  had  never  dreamt  of  your  face,"  said  Lamberti, 
"but  I  was  sure  I  had  seen  you  before." 

They  looked  down  into  the  moving  water,  and  the 
music  of  its  fall  made  it  harmonious  with  the  distant 
song  of  the  nightingale.  Lamberti  tried  to  think  con- 
nectedly, and  could  not.  It  was  as  if  he  were  under  a 
spell.  Questions  rose  to  his  lips,  but  he  could  not 
speak  the  words,  he  could  not  put  them  together  in  the 
right  way.  Once,  at  sea,  on  the  training  ship,  he  had 
fallen  from  the  foreyard,  and  though  the  fall  was  broken 
by  the  gear  and  he  had  not  been  injured,  he  had  been 


A  STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  159 

badly  stunned,  and  for  more  than  an  hour  he  had  lost 
all  sense  of  direction,  of  what  was  forward  and  what 
was  aft,  so  that  at  one  moment  the  vessel  seemed  to  be 
sailing  backwards,  and  then  forwards,  and  then  side- 
ways. He  felt  something  like  that  now,  and  he  knew 
intuitively  that  Cecilia  felt  it  also.  Amazingly  absurd 
thoughts  passed  through  his  mind.  Was  to-morrow 
going  to  be  yesterday?  Would  what  was  coming  be 
just  what  was  long  past?  Or  was  there  no  past,  no 
future,  nothing  but  all  time  present  at  once  ? 

He  was  not  moved  by  Cecilia's  presence  in  the  same 
way  that  Guido  was.  Guido  was  merely  in  love  with 
her;  very  much  in  love,  no  doubt,  but  that  was  all. 
She  was  to  him,  first,  the  being  of  all  others  with  whom 
he  was  most  in  sympathy,  the  only  being  whom  he  un- 
derstood, and  who,  he  was  sure,  understood  him,  the 
only  being  without  whom  life  would  be  unendurable. 
And,  secondly,  she  was  the  one  and  only  creature  in 
the  world  created  to  be  his  natural  mate,  and  when  he 
was  near  her  he  was  aware  of  nature's  mysterious  forces, 
and  felt  the  thrill  of  them  continually. 

Lamberti  experienced  nothing  of  that  sort  at  present. 
He  was  overwhelmed  and  carried  away  out  of  the  region 
of  normal  thought  and  volition  towards  something 
which  he  somehow  knew  was  at  hand,  which  he  was 
sure  he  had  reached  before,  but  which  he  could  not  dis- 
tinctly remember.  Between  it  and  him  in  the  past 
there  was  a  wall  of  darkness ;  between  him  and  it  in 
the  future  there  was  a  veil  not  yet  lifted,  but  on  which 
his  dreams  already  cast  strange  and  beautiful  shadows. 


160  CECILIA 

"I  used  to  see  things  in  the  water,"  Cecilia  said 
softly,  "things  that  were  going  to  happen.  That  was 
long,  long  ago." 

"I  remember,"  said  Lamberti,  quite  naturally. 
"You  told  me  once  —  " 

He  stopped.  It  was  gone  back  behind  the  wall  of 
darkness.  When  he  had  begun  to  speak,  quite  uncon- 
sciously, he  had  known  what  it  was  that  Cecilia  had 
tcrld  him,  but  he  had  forgotten  it  all  now.  He  passed 
his  hand  over  his  forehead,  and  suddenly  everything 
changed,  and  he  came  back  out  of  an  immeasurable 
distance  to  real  life. 

"I  shall  be  going  away  in  a  few  days,"  he  said. 
"May  I  see  you  before  I  go?  " 

"  Certainly.  Come  and  see  us  about  three  o'clock. 
We  are  always  at  home  then." 

"Thank  you." 

They  turned  from  the  fountain  while  they  spoke,  and 
walked  slowly  towards  the  house. 

"Does  your  mother  know  about  your  dreaming?" 
Lamberti  asked. 

"No.     No  one  knows.     And  you?" 

"  I  have  told  that  doctor.  No  one  else.  I  wonder 
whether  it  will  go  on  when  I  am  far  away." 

"  I  wonder,  too.     Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know  yet.  Perhaps  to  China  again.  I 
shall  get  my  orders  in  a  few  days." 

They  reached  the  threshold  of  the  door.  Lamberti 
had  been  looking  for  Guide's  face  amongst  the  people 
he  could  see  as  he  came  up,  but  Guido  was  gone. 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  161 

"Good-bye,"  said  Cecilia,  softly. 

"Good  night,"  Lamberti  answered,  almost  in  a  whis- 
per.    "God  bless  you." 

He  afterwards  thought  it  strange  that  he  should  have 
said  that,  but  at  the  time  it  seemed  quite  natural,  and 
Cecilia  was  not  at  all  surprised.  She  smiled  and  bent 
her  graceful  head.  Then  she  joined  her  mother,  and 
Lamberti  disappeared. 

"My  dear,"  said  the  Countess,  "you  remember  Mon- 
sieur Leroy?  You  met  him  at  Princess  Anatolie's," 
she  added,  in  a  stage  whisper. 

Monsieur  Leroy  bowed,  and  Cecilia  nodded.  She 
had  forgotten  his  existence,  and  now  remembered  that 
she  had  not  liked  him,  and  that  she  had  said  something 
sharp  to  him.     He  spoke  first. 

"  The  Princess  wished  me  to  tell  you  how  very  sorry 
she  is  that  she  cannot  be  here  this  afternoon.  She  has 
one  of  her  attacks." 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  Cecilia  answered.  "Pray  tell 
her  how  sorry  I  am." 

"  Thank  you.  But  I  daresay  Guido  brought  you  the 
same  message." 

"Who  is  Guido?"  asked  Cecilia,  raising  her  eye- 
brows a  little. 

"Guido  d'Este.  I  thought  you  knew.  You  are  sur- 
prised that  I  should  call  him  by  his  Christian  name  ? 
You  see,  I  have  known  him  ever  since  he  was  quite  a 
boy.  To  all  intents  and  purposes,  he  was  brought  up 
by  the  Princess." 

"And  you  are  often  at  the  house,  I  suppose." 


162  CECILIA 

"I  live  there,'*  explained  Monsieur  Leroy.  •*T(> 
change  the  subject,  my  dear  young  lady,  I  have  an 
apology  to  make,  which  I  hope  you  will  accept.'' 

Cecilia  did  not  like  to  be  called  any  one's  "dear 
young  lady,"  and  her  manner  froze  instantly. 

"  I  cannot  imagine  why  you  should  apologise  to  me, " 
she  said  coldly. 

"  I  was  rude  to  you  the  other  day,  about  your  courses 
of  philosophy,  or  something  of  that  sort.  Was  not 
that  it?" 

"Indeed,  I  had  quite  forgotten,"  Cecilia  answered, 
with  truth.  "It  did  not  matter  in  the  least  what  you 
thought  of  my  reading  Nietzsche,  I  assure  you." 

Monsieur  Leroy  reddened  and  laughed  awkwardly, 
for  he  was  particularly  anxious  to  win  her  good  grace. 

"I  am  not  very  clever,  you  know,"  he  said  humbly. 
"You  must  forgive  me." 

"  Oh  certainly,"  replied  Cecilia.  "  Your  explanation 
is  more  than  adequate.  In  my  mind,  the  matter  had 
already  explained  itself.     Will  you  have  some  tea?" 

"No,  thank  you.  My  nerves  are  rather  troublesome. 
If  I  take  tea  in  the  afternoon  I  cannot  sleep  at  night. 
I  met  Guido  going  away  as  I  came.  He  was  enthu- 
siastic ! " 

"In  what  way?" 

"About  the  villa,  and  the  house,  and  the  flowers, 
and  about  you."  He  lowered  his  voice  to  a  confidential 
tone  as  he  spoke  the  last  words. 

"  About  me  ?  "     Cecilia  was  somewhat  surprised. 

"  Oh  yes  I     He  was  overcome  by  your  perfection  — 


A   STORY  OF   MODERN   ROME  163 

like  every  one  else.    How  could  it  be  otherwise  ?    It  is 
true  that  Guido  has  always  been  very  impressionable." 

"I  should  not  have  thought  it,"  Cecilia  said,  wishing 
that  the  man  would  go  away. 

But  he  would  not,  and,  to  make  matters  worse, 
nobody  would  come  and  oblige  him  to  move.  It  was 
plain  to  the  meanest  mind  that  since  Cecilia  was  to 
marry  Princess  Anatolie's  nephew,  the  extraordinary 
person  whom  the  Princess  called  her  secretary  must 
not  be  disturbed  when  he  was  talking  to  Cecilia,  since 
he  might  be  the  bearer  of  some  important  message. 
Besides,  a  good  many  people  were  afraid  of  him,  in  a 
vague  way,  as  a  rather  spiteful  gossip  who  had  more 
influence  than  he  should  have  had. 

"Yes,"  he  continued,  in  an  apologetic  tone,  "Guido 
is  always  falling  in  love,  poor  boy.  Of  cour  e,  it  is 
not  to  be  wondered  at.  A  king's  son,  and  h  i,ndsome 
as  he  is,  and  so  very  clever,  too  —  all  the  pretty  ladies 
fall  in  love  with  him  at  once,  and  he  naturally  falls  in 
love  with  them.  You  see  how  simple  it  is.  He  has 
more  opportunities  than  are  good  for  him!  " 

The  disagreeable  little  man  giggled,  and  his  loose 
pink  and  white  cheeks  shook  unpleasantly.  Cecilia 
thought  him  horribly  vulgar  and  familiar,  and  she 
inwardly  wondered  how  the  Princess  Anatolie  could 
even  tolerate  him,  not  to  speak  of  treating  him  affec- 
tionately and  calling  him  "Doudou." 

"  I  supposed  that  you  counted  yourself  among  Signor 
d'Este's  friends,"  said  the  young  girl,  frigidly. 

"I  do,  I  do!      Have   I   said   anything   unfriendly? 


164  CECILIA 

I  merely  said  that  all  the  women  fell  in  love  with 
him." 

"You  said  a  good  deal  more  than  that." 

"At  all  events,  I  wish  I  were  he,"  said  Monsieur 
Leroy.  "  And  if  that  is  not  paying  him  a  compliment 
I  do  not  know  what  you  would  call  it.  He  is  hand- 
some, clever,  generous,  everything!  " 

"And  faithless,  according  to  you." 

"No,  no!     Not  faithless;  only  fickle,  very  fickle." 

"  It  is  the  same  thing,"  said  the  young  girl,  scornfully. 

She  did  not  believe  Monsieur  Leroy  in  the  least,  but 
she  wondered  what  his  object  could  be  in  speaking 
against  Guido,  and  whether  he  were  really  silly,  as  he 
often  seemed,  or  malicious,  as  she  suspected,  or  possibly 
both  at  the  same  time,  since  the  combination  is  not  un- 
common '.  What  he  was  telling  her,  if  she  believed  it, 
was  cei  ^.ainly  not  of  a  nature  to  hasten  her  marriage 
with  Guido;  and  yet  it  was  the  Princess  who  had  first 
suggested  the  match,  and  it  could  hardly  be  supposed 
that  Monsieur  Leroy  would  attempt  to  oppose  his 
protectress. 

Just  then  there  was  a  general  move  to  go  away,  and 
the  conversation  was  interrupted,  much  to  Cecilia's 
satisfaction.  There  was  a  great  stir  in  the  wide  hall, 
for  though  many  people  had  slipped  away  without  dis- 
turbing the  Countess  by  taking  leave,  there  were  many 
of  her  nearer  friends  who  wished  to  say  a  word  to  her 
before  going,  just  to  tell  her  that  they  had  enjoyed 
themselves  vastly,  that  Cecilia  was  a  model  of  beauty 
and  good  behaviour,  and  of  everything  charming,  and 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  165 

that  the  villa  was  the  most  delightful  place  they  had 
ever  seen.  By  these  means  they  conveyed  the  impres- 
sion that  they  would  all  accept  any  future  invitation 
which  the  Countess  might  send  them,  and  they  audibly 
congratulated  one  another  upon  her  having  at  last  es- 
tablished herself  in  Rome,  adding  that  Cecilia  was  a 
great  acquisition  to  society.  More  than  that  it  was 
manifestly  impossible  to  say  in  a  few  well-chosen 
words.  Even  in  a  language  as  rich  as  Italian,  the 
number  of  approving  adjectives  is  limited,  and  each 
can  only  have  one  superlative.  The  Countess  Forti- 
guerra's  guests  distributed  these  useful  words  amongst 
them  and  exhausted  the  supply. 

''It  has  been  a  great  success,  my  dear,"  said  the 
Countess,  when  she  and  her  daughter  were  left  alone 
in  the  hall.  "  Did  you  see  the  Duchess  of  Pallacorda's 
hat?" 

"  No,  mother.  At  least,  I  did  not  notice  it."  Cecilia 
was  nibbling  a  cake,  thoughtfully. 

"My  dear!"  cried  the  Countess.  "It  was  the  most 
wonderful  thing  you  ever  saw.  She  was  in  terror  lest 
it  should  come  too  late.  Monsieur  Leroy  knew  all 
about  it." 

"  I  cannot  bear  that  man,"  Cecilia  said,  still  nibbling, 
for  she  was  hungry. 

"I  cannot  say  that  I  like  him,  either.  But  the 
Duchess's  new  hat  —  " 

Cecilia  heard  her  voice,  but  was  too  much  occupied 
with  her  own  thoughts  to  listen  attentively,  while  the 
good  Countess  criticised  the  hat  in  question,  admired 


L 


166  CECILIA 

its  beauties,  corrected  its  defects,  put  it  a  little  further 
back  on  the  Duchess's  pretty  head,  and,  indeed,  did 
everything  with  it  which  every  woman  can  do,  in 
imagination,  with  every  imaginary  hat.  Finally,  she 
asked  Cecilia  if  she  should  not  like  to  have  one  exactly 
like  it. 

"No,  thank  you.  Not  now,  at  all  events.  Mother 
dear,"  and  she  looked  affectionately  at  the  Countess, 
"  what  a  deal  of  trouble  you  have  taken  to  make  it  all 
beautiful  for  me  to-day.     I  am  so  grateful !  " 

She  kissed  her  mother  on  both  cheeks  just  as  she  had 
always  done  when  she  was  pleased,  ever  since  she  had 
been  a  child,  and  suddenly  the  elder  woman's  eyes 
glistened. 

"It  is  a  pleasure  to  do  anything  for  you,  darling," 
she  said.  "I  have  only  you  in  the  world,"  she  added 
quietly,  after  a  little  pause,  "  but  I  sometimes  think  I 
have  more  than  all  the  other  women." 

Then  Cecilia  laid  her  head  on  her  mother's  shoulder 
for  a  moment,  and  gently  patted  her  cheek,  and  they 
both  felt  very  happy. 

They  drove  home  in  the  warm  dusk,  and  when  they 
reached  the  high  road  down  by  the  Tiber  they  looked 
up  and  saw  moving  lights  through  the  great  open  win- 
dows of  the  villa,  and  on  the  terrace,  and  in  the  gar- 
dens, like  fireflies.  For  the  servants  were  bringing  in 
the  chairs  and  putting  things  in  order.  The  nightin- 
gale was  singing  again,  far  up  in  the  woods,  but  Cecilia 
could  hear  the  song  distinctly  as  the  carriage  swept 
along. 


A   STOE.Y   OF   MODERN   ROME  167 

Now  the  Countess  was  kind  and  true,  and  loved  her 
daughter  devotedly,  but  she  would  not  have  been  a 
woman  if  she  had  not  wished  to  know  what  Guido  had 
said  to  Cecilia  that  afternoon;  and  before  they  had 
entered  Porta  Angelica  she  asked  what  she  considered 
a  leading  question,  in  her  own  peculiar  contradictory 
way. 

"  Of  course,  I  am  not  going  to  ask  you  anything,  my 
dear,"  she  began,  "but  did  Signor  d'Este  say  anything 
especial  to  you  when  you  went  off  together?  " 

Cecilia  remembered  how  they  had  driven  home  from 
the  Princess's  a  fortnight  earlier,  almost  at  the  same 
hour,  and  how  her  mother  had  then  first  spoken  of 
Guido  d'Este.  The  young  girl  asked  herself  in  the 
moment  she  took  before  answering,  whether  she  were 
any  nearer  to  the  thought  of  marrying  him  than  she  had 
been  after  that  first  short  meeting. 

"He  loves  me,  mother,"  she  answered  softly.     "He 

has  made  me  understand  that  he  does,  without  quite 

saying  so.     I  like  him  very  much.     That  is  our  position 

now.     I  would  rather  not  talk  about  it  much,  but  you 

,  have  a  right  to  know." 

P  "  Yes,  dear.  But  what  I  mean  is  —  I  mean,  what  I 
meant  was  —  he  has  not  asked  you  to  marry  him,  has 
he?" 

"No.     I  am  not  sure  that  he  will,  now." 

"  Yes,  he  will.     He  asked  me  yesterday  evening  if  ^ 
he  might,  and  of  course  I  gave  him  my  permission." 

It  was  a  relief  to  have  told  Cecilia  this,  for  conceal- 
ment was  intolerable  to  the  Countess. 


168  CECILIA 

"I  see,"  Cecilia  answered. 

"Yes,  of  course  you  do.  But  when  he  does  ask  you, 
what  shall  you  say,  dear?  He  is  sure  to  ask  you  to- 
morrow, and  I  really  want  to  know  what  I  am  to  expect. 
Surely,  by  this  time  you  must  have  made  up  your  mind." 

"  I  have  only  known  him  a  fortnight,  mother.  That 
is  not  a  long  time  when  one  is  to  decide  about  one's 
whole  life,  is  it?" 

"  No.  Well  —  it  seems  to  me  that  a  fortnight  —  you 
see,  it  is  so  important!  " 

"Precisely,"  Cecilia  answered.  "It  is  very  impor- 
tant. That  is  why  I  do  not  mean  to  do  anything  in  a 
hurry.  Either  you  must  tell  Signor  d'Este  to  wait  a 
little  while  before  he  asks  me,  or  else,  when  he  does,  I 
must  beg  him  to  wait  some  time  for  his  answer." 

"But  it  seems  to  me,  if  you  like  him  so  much,  that 
is  quite  enough." 

"Why  are  you  in  such  a  hurry,  mother?"  asked  Ce- 
cilia, with  a  smile. 

"Because  I  am  sure  you  will  be  perfectly  happy  if 
you  marry  him,**  answered  the  Countess,  with  much 
conviction. 


CHAPTER    X 

GuiDO  d'Este  walked  home  from  the  Villa  Madama 
in  a  very  bad  temper  with  everything.  He  was  not 
of  a  dramatic  disposition,  nor  easily  inclined  to  sudden 
resolutions,  and  when  placed  in  new  and  unexpected 
circumstances  his  instinct  was  rather  to  let  them 
develop  as  they  would  than  to  direct  them  or  oppose 
them  actively.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  now 
felt  that  he  must  do  one  or  the  other. 

To  treat  Lamberti  as  if  nothing  had  happened  was 
impossible,  and  it  was  equally  out  of  the  question  to 
behave  towards  Cecilia  as  though  she  had  not  done  or 
said  anything  to  check  the  growth  of  intimacy  and 
friendship  on  her  side  and  of  genuine  love  on  his. 
He  took  the  facts  as  he  knew  them  and  tried  to  state 
them  justly,  but  he  could  make  nothing  of  them  that 
did  not  plainly  accuse  both  Cecilia  and  Lamberti  of 
deceiving  him.  Again  and  again,  he  recalled  the 
words  and  behaviour  of  both,  and  he  could  reach  no 
other  conclusion.  They  had  a  joint  secret  which  they 
had  agreed  to  keep  from  him,  and  rather  than  reveal 
it  his  best  friend  was  ready  to  break  with  him,  and 
the  woman  he  loved  preferred  never  to  see  him  again. 
He  reflected  that  he  was  not  the  first  man  who  had 

169 


170  CECILIA 

been  checked  by  a  girl  and  forsaken  by  a  friend,  but 
that  did  not  make  it  any  easier  to  bear. 

It  was  quite  clear  that  he  could  not  submit  to  be 
so  treated  by  them.  Lamberti  had  asked  him  to  speak 
to  Cecilia  before  quarrelling  definitely.  He  had  done 
so,  and  he  was  more  fully  convinced  than  before  that 
both  were  deceiving  him.  There  was  no  way  out  of 
that  conviction,  there  was  not  the  smallest  argument 
on  the  other  side,  and  nothing  that  either  could  ever 
say  could  shake  his  belief.  It  was  plainly  his  duty 
to  tell  them  so,  and  it  would  be  wisest  to  write  to 
them,  for  he  felt  that  he  might  lose  his  temper  if  he 
tried  to  say  what  he  meant,  instead  of  writing  it. 

He  wrote  to  Lamberti  first,  because  it  was  easier, 
though  it  was  quite  the  hardest  thing  he  had  ever 
done.  He  began  by  proving  to  himself,  and  therefore 
to  his  friend,  that  he  was  writing  after  mature  reflec- 
tion and  without  the  least  hastiness,  or  temper,  or 
unwillingness  to  be  convinced,  if  Lamberti  had  any- 
thing to  say  in  self-defence.  He  expressed  no  suspi- 
cion as  to  the  probable  nature  of  the  secret  that  was 
withheld  from  him;  he  even  wrote  that  he  no  longer 
wished  to  know  what  it  was.  His  argument  was  that 
by  refusing  to  reveal  it,  Lamberti  had  convicted  him- 
self of  some  unknown  deed  which  he  was  ashamed  to 
acknowledge,  and  Guido  did  not  hesitate  to  add  that 
such  unjustifiable  reticence  might  easily  be  construed 
in  such  a  way  as  to  cast  a  slur  upon  the  character  of 
an  innocent  young  girl. 

Having   got   so    far,    Guido    immediately    tore    the 


A  STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  171 

whole  letter  to  shreds  and  rose  from  his  writing  table^ 
convinced  that  it  was  impossible  to  write  what  he 
meant  without  saying  things  which  he  did  not  mean. 
After  all,  he  could  simply  avoid  his  old  friend  in 
future.  The  idea  of  quarrelling  with  him  aggressively 
had  never  entered  his  mind,  and  it  was  therefore  of 
no  use  to  write  anything  at  all.  Lamberti  must  have 
guessed  already  that  all  friendship  was  at  an  end, 
and  it  would  consequently  be  quite  useless  to  tell  him 
so. 

He  must  write  to  Cecilia,  however.  He  could  not 
allow  her  to  think,  because  he  had  apologised  for 
rudely  doubting  her  word,  that  he  therefore  believed 
what  she  had  told  him.     He  would  write. 

Here  he  was  confronted  by  much  greater  difficulties 
than  he  had  found  in  composing  his  unsuccessful 
letter  to  Lamberti.  In  the  first  place,  he  was  in  love 
with  her,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  should  love 
her  just  as  much,  whatever  she  did.  He  wondered 
what  it  was  that  he  felt,  for  at  first  he  hardly  thought 
it  was  jealousy,  and  it  was  assuredly  not  a  mere  passing 
fit  of  ill-tempered  resentment. 

It  must  be  jealousy,  after  all.  He  fancied  that  she 
had  known  Lamberti  before,  and  that  she  had  been 
girlishly  in  love  with  him,  and  that  when  she  had 
met  him  again  she  had  been  startled  and  annoyed. 
It  was  not  so  hard  to  imagine  that  this  might  be 
possible,  though  he  could  not  see  why  they  should 
both  make  such  a  secret  of  having  known  each  other. 
But    perhaps,    by    some    accident,    they    had    become 


172  CECILIA 

intimate  without  the  knowledge  of  the  Countess,  so 
that  Cecilia  was  now  very  much  afraid  lest  her  mother 
should  find  it  out. 

Guido's  reflections  stopped  there.  At  any  other  time 
he  would  have  laughed  at  their  absurdity,  and  now 
he  resented  it.  The  plain  fact  stared  him  in  the  face, 
the  fact  he  had  known  all  along  and  had  forgotten  — 
Lamberti  could  not  possibly  have  met  Cecilia  since  she 
had  been  a  mere  child,  because  Guido  could  account  for 
all  his  friend's  movements  during  the  last  five  years. 
Five  years  ago,  Cecilia  had  been  thirteen. 

He  was  glad  that  he  had  torn  up  his  letter  to  Lam- 
berti, and  that  he  had  not  even  begun  the  one  to  Cecilia, 
after  sitting  half  an  hour  with  his  pen  in  his  hand. 
Yes,  he  went  over  those  five  years,  and  then  took  from 
a  drawer  the  last  five  of  the  little  pocket  diaries  he 
always  carried.  There  was  a  small  space  for  each  day 
of  the  year,  and  he  never  failed  to  note  at  least  the 
name  of  the  place  in  which  he  was,  while  travelling. 
He  also  recorded  Lamberti's  coming  and  going,  the 
names  of  the  ships  to  which  he  was  ordered,  and  the 
dates  of  any  notable  facts  in  his  life.  It  is  tolerably 
easy  to  record  the  exact  movements  of  a  sailor  in  active 
service  who  is  only  at  home  on  very  short  leave  once  in 
a  year  or  two.  Guido  turned  over  the  pages  carefully 
and  set  down  on  a  slip  of  paper  what  he  found.  In 
five  years  Lamberti's  leave  had  not  amounted  to  eight 
months  in  all,  and  Guido  could  account  for  every  day 
of  it,  for  they  had  spent  all  of  it  either  in  Rome  or  in 
travelling  together.     He  laid  the  little  diaries  in  the 


A   STORY   OF  MODERN   ROME  173 

drawer  again,  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  a  deep 
sigh  of  satisfaction. 

He  was  too  generous  not  to  wish  to  find  his  friend  at 
once  and  acknowledge  frankly  that  he  had  been  wrong. 
He  telephoned  to  ask  whether  Lamberti  had  come  back 
from  the  Villa  Madama.  Yes,  he  had  come  back,  but 
he  had  gone  out  again.  No  one  knew  where  he  was. 
He  had  said  that  he  should  not  dine  at  home.  That 
was  all.  If  he  returned  before  half-past  ten  o'clock 
d'Este  should  be  informed. 

Guido  dined  alone  and  waited,  but  no  message  came 
during  the  evening.  At  half-past  ten  he  wrote  a  few 
words  on  a  correspondence  card,  told  his  man  to  send 
the  note  to  Lamberti  early  in  the  morning,  and  went 
to  bed,  convinced  that  everything  would  explain  itself 
satisfactorily  before  long.  As  soon  as  he  was  positively 
sure  that  Lamberti  and  Cecilia  could  not  possibly  have 
known  each  other  more  than  a  fortnight,  his  natural 
indolence  returned.  Of  course  it  was  very  extraordi- 
nary that  Cecilia  should  have  felt  such  a  strong  dislike 
for  Lamberti  at  first  sight,  for  it  could  be  nothing  else, 
since  she  seemed  displeased  whenever  his  name  was 
mentioned;  and  it  was  equally  strange  that  Lamberti 
should  feel  the  same  antipathy  for  her.  But  since  it 
was  so,  she  would  naturally  draw  back  from  telling 
Guido  that  his  best  friend  was  repulsive  to  her,  and 
Lamberti  would  not  like  to  acknowledge  that  the  young 
girl  Guido  wished  to  marry  produced  a  disagreeable 
impression  on  him.  It  was  quite  natural,  too,  that  after 
what  Guido  had  said  to  each  of  them,  each  should  have 


174  CECILIA 

been  anxious  to  show  him  that  he  was  mistaken,  and 
that  they  should  have  taken  the  first  opportunity  of 
talking  together  just  when  he  should  most  notice  it. 

Everything  was  accounted  for  by  this  ingenious 
theory.  Guido  knew  a  man  who  turned  pale  when  a 
cat  came  near  him,  though  he  was  a  manly  man,  good 
at  sports  and  undeniably  courageous.  Those  things 
could  not  be  explained,  but  it  was  much  easier  to  under- 
stand that  a  sensitive  young  girl  might  be  violently 
affected  by  an  instinctive  antipathy  for  a  man,  than  that 
a  strong  man's  teeth  should  chatter  if  a  cat  got  under 
his  chair  at  dinner.  That  was  undoubtedly  what 
happened.  How  could  either  of  them  tell  him  so,  since 
he  was  so  fond  of  both  ?  Lamberti  had  said  that  as  a 
last  resource,  he  would  try  to  explain  what  the  trouble 
was.  Guido  would  spare  him  that.  He  knew  what  he 
had  felt  almost  daily  in  the  presence  of  Monsieur  Leroy, 
ever  since  he  had  been  a  boy.  Lamberti  and  Cecilia 
probably  acted  on  each  other  in  the  same  way.  It  was 
a  misfortune,  of  course,  that  his  best  friend  and  his 
future  wife  should  hate  the  sight  and  presence  of  one 
another,  but  it  was  not  their  fault,  and  they  would 
probably  get  over  it. 

It  was  wonderful  to  see  how  everything  that  had 
happened  exactly  fitted  into  Guide's  simple  explana- 
tion, the  passing  shadow  on  Cecilia's  face,  the  evident 
embarrassment  of  both  when  Guido  asked  each  the 
same  question,  the  agreement  of  their  answers,  the 
readiness  both  had  shown  to  try  and  overcome  their 
mutual   dislike  —  it  was   simply  wonderful!      By  the 


A   STORY   OF  MODERN   ROME  175 

time  Guido  laid  his  head  on  his  pillow,  he  was  serenely 
calm  and  certain  of  the  future.  With  the  words  of  sin- 
cere regret  he  had  written  to  Lamberti,  and  with  the 
decision  to  say  much  the  same  thing  to  Cecilia  on  the 
following  day,  his  conscience  was  at  rest ;  and  he  went 
to  sleep  in  the  pleasant  assurance  that  after  having  done 
something  very  hasty  he  had  just  avoided  doing  some- 
thing quite  irreparable. 

Lamberti  had  spent  a  less  pleasant  evening,  and  was 
not  prepared  for  the  agreeable  surprise  that  awaited 
him  on  the  following  morning  in  Guide's  note.  He  was 
neither  indolent  nor  at  all  given  to  self-examination, 
and  he  had  generally  found  it  a  good  plan  to  act  upon 
impulse,  and  do  what  he  wished  to  do  before  it  occurred 
to  any  one  else  to  do  the  same  thing ;  and  when  he  could 
not  see  what  he  ought  to  do,  and  was  nevertheless  sure 
that  he  ought  to  act  at  once,  he  lost  his  temper  with 
himself  and  sometimes  with  other  people. 

He  was  afraid  to  go  to  bed  that  night,  and  he  went 
to  the  club  and  watched  some  of  his  friends  playing 
cards  until  he  could  not  keep  his  eyes  open;  for  gam- 
bling bored  him  to  extinction.  Then  he  walked  the 
whole  length  of  the  Corso  and  back,  in  the  hope  that 
the  exercise  might  prevent  him  from  dreaming.  But  it 
only  roused  him  again ;  and  when  he  was  in  his  own 
room  he  stood  nearly  two  hours  at  the  open  window, 
smoking  one  cigar  after  another.  At  last  he  lay  down 
without  putting  out  the  light  and  read  a  French  novel 
till  it  dropped  from  his  hand,  and  he  fell  asleep  at  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning. 


176  CECILIA 

He  was  not  visited  by  the  dream  that  had  disturbed 
his  rest  nightly  for  a  full  fortnight.  Possibly  the 
doctor  had  been  right  after  all,  and  the  habit  was 
broken.  At  all  events,  what  he  remembered  having 
felt  when  he  awoke  was  something  quite  new  and  not 
altogether  unpleasant  after  the  first  beginning,  yet  so 
strangely  undefined  that  he  would  have  found  it  hard 
to  describe  it  in  any  words. 

He  had  no. consciousness  of  any  sort  of  shape  or  body 
belonging  to  him,  nor  of  motion,  nor  of  sight,  after  the 
darkness  had  closed  in  upon  him.  That  moment,  in- 
deed, was  terrible.  It  reminded  him  of  the  approach 
of  a  cyclone  in  the  West  Indies,  which  he  remembered 
well  —  the  dreadful  stillness  in  the  air ;  the  long,  sullen, 
greenish  brown  swell  of  the  oily  sea;  the  appalling 
bank  of  solid  darkness  that  moved  upon  the  ship  over 
the  noiseless  waves;  the  shreds  of  black  cloud  torn 
forwards  by  an  unseen  and  unheard  force,  and  the  vast 
flashes  of  lightning  that  shot  upwards  like  columns  of 
flame.     He  remembered  the  awful  waiting. 

Not  a  storm,  then,  but  an  instant  change  from  some- 
thing to  nothing,  with  consciousness  preserved;  com- 
plete, far-reaching  consciousness,  that  was  more  perfect 
than  sight,  yet  was  not  sight,  but  a  being  everywhere 
at  once,  a  universal  understanding,  a  part  of  something 
all  pervading,  a  unification  with  all  things  past,  present, 
and  to  come,  with  no  desire  for  them,  nor  vision  of 
them,  but  perfect  knowledge  of  them  all. 

At  the  same  time,  there  was  the  presence  of  another 
immeasurable  identity  in  the  same  space,  so  that  his 


A   STORY   OF  MODERN   ROME  177 

own  being  and  that  other  were  coexistent  and  alike, 
each  in  the  other,  everywhere  at  once,  and  insepara- 
ble from  the  other,  and  also,  in  some  unaccountable 
way,  each  dear  to  the  other  beyond  and  above  all 
description.  And  there  was  perfect  peace  and  a  state 
very  far  beyond  any  possible  waking  happiness,  with- 
out any  conception  of  time  or  of  motion,  but  only  of 
infinite  space  with  infinite  understanding. 

Another  phase  began.  There  was  time  again,  there 
were  minutes,  hours,  months,  years,  ages;  and  there 
was  a  longing  for  something  that  could  change,  a  stir- 
ring of  human  memories  in  the  boundless  immaterial 
consciousness,  a  desire  for  sight  and  hearing,  a  gradual, 
growing  wish  to  see  a  face  remembered  before  the  wall 
of  darkness  had  closed  in,  to  hear  a  voice  that  had  once 
sounded  in  ears  that  had  once  understood,  to  touch  a 
hand  that  had  felt  his  long  ago.  And  the  longing 
became  intolerable,  for  lack  of  these  things,  like  a  burn- 
ing thirst  where  there  is  no  water,  and  the  perfect 
peace  was  all  consumed  in  that  raging  wish,  and  the 
quiet  was  disquiet,  and  the  two  consciousnesses  felt 
that  each  was  learning  to  suffer  again  for  want  of  the 
other,  till  what  had  been  heaven  was  hell,  and  earth 
would  be  better,  or  total  destruction  and  the  extinguish- 
ing of  all  identity,  or  anything  that  was  not,  rather  than 
the  least  prolonging  of  what  was. 

The  last  change  now ;  back  to  the  world,  and  to  a 
human  body.  Lamberti  was  waked  by  a  vigorous  knock- 
ing at  his  door,  which  was  locked  as  usual.  It  was  nine 
o'clock,  and  a  servant  had  brought  him  Guido's  note. 


178  CECILIA 

"  My  dear  friend,"  it  said,  "  I  was  altogether  in  the 
wrong  yesterday.  Please  forgive  me.  I  quite  under- 
stand your  position  with  regard  to  the  Contessina,  and 
hers  towards  you,  but  I  sincerely  hope  that  in  the  end 
you  may  be  good  friends.  I  appreciate  very  much  the 
effort  you  both  made  this  afternoon  to  overcome  your 
mutual  antipathy.     Thank  you.     G.  d'E." 

Lamberti  read  the  note  three  times  before  the  truth 
dawned  upon  him,  and  he  at  last  understood  what  Guido 
meant.  At  first  the  note  seemed  to  have  been  written 
in  irony,  if  not  in  anger,  but  that  would  have  been  very 
unlike  Guido ;  the  second  reading  convinced  Lamberti 
that  his  friend  was  in  earnest,  whatever  his  meaning 
might  be,  and  at  the  third  perusal,  Lamberti  saw  the 
true  state  of  the  case.  Guido  supposed  that  he  and 
Cecilia  were  violently  repelled  by  each  other. 

He  did  not  smile  at  the  absurdity  of  the  idea,  for  he 
felt  at  once  that  the  results  of  such  a  misunderstanding 
must  before  long  place  Cecilia  and  himself  in  a  false 
position,  from  which  it  would  be  hard  to  escape.  Yet 
he  was  well  aware  that  Guido  would  not  believe  the 
truth  —  that  the  coincidences  were  too  extraordinary  to 
be  readily  admitted,  while  no  other  rational  theory  could 
be  found  to  explain  what  had  happened.  If  Lamberti 
saw  Cecilia  often,  Guido  would  soon  perceive  that  in- 
stead of  mutual  dislike  and  repulsion  the  strongest 
sympathy  existed  between  them,  and  that  they  would 
always  understand  each  other  without  words.  It  would 
be  impossible  to  conceal  that  very  long. 

Besides,  they  would  love  each  other,  if  they  met  fre- 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  179 

quently;  about  that  Lamberti  had  not  the  smallest 
doubt.  His  instincts  were  direct  and  unhesitating,  and 
he  knew  that  he  had  never  felt  for  any  living  woman 
what  he  felt  for  the  fair  young  girl  whose  unreal  pres- 
ence visited  his  dreams,  and  who,  in  those  long  visions, 
loved  him  dearly  in  return,  with  a  spiritual  passion  that 
rose  far  above  perishable  things  and  yet  was  not  wholly 
immaterial.  There  was  that  one  moment  when  they 
stood  near  together  in  the  early  morning,  and  their  lips 
met  as  if  body,  heart,  and  soul  were  all  meeting  at  once, 
and  only  for  once. 

After  that,  in  his  dreams,  there  was  much  that  Lam- 
berti could  not  understand  in  himself,  and  which  seemed 
very  unlike  the  self  he  knew,  very  much  higher,  very 
much  purer,  very  much  more  inclined  to  sacrifice,  con- 
stantly in  a  sort  of  spiritual  tension  and  always  striving 
towards  a  perfect  life,  which  was  as  far  as  anything 
could  be,  he  supposed,  from  his  own  personality,  as  he 
thought  he  knew  it.  The  story  he  dreamed  was  simple 
enough.  He  was  a  Christian,  the  girl  a  Vestal  Virgin, 
the  youngest  of  those  last  six  who  still  guarded  the 
sacred  hearth  when  the  Christian  Emperor  dissolved  all 
that  was  left  of  the  worship  of  the  old  gods.  He  bade 
the  noble  maidens  close  the  doors  of  the  temple  and 
depart  in  peace  to  their  parents'  homes,  freed  from  their 
vows  and  service,  and  from  all  obligations  to  the  state, 
but  deprived  also  of  all  their  old  honours  and  lands  and 
privileges.  And  sadly  they  buried  the  things  that  had 
been  holy,  where  no  man  knew,  and  watched  the  fire 
together,  one  last  night,  till  it  burned  out  to  white  ashes 


180  CECILIA 

in  the  spring  dawn;  and  they  embraced  one  another 
with  tears  and  went  away.  Some  became  Christians, 
and  some  afterwards  married;  but  there  was  one  who 
would  not,  though  she  loved  as  none  of  them  loved, 
and  she  withdrew  from  the  world  and  lived  a  pure  life 
for  the  sake  of  the  old  faith  and  of  her  solemn  vows. 

So,  at  last,  the  Christian  believed  what  she  told  him, 
that  it  was  better  to  love  in  that  way,  because  when  he 
and  she  were  freed  at  last  from  all  earthly  longings, 
they  would  be  united  for  ever  and  ever ;  and  she  became 
a  Christian,  too,  and  after  the  other  five  Vestals  were 
dead,  she  also  passed  away ;  and  the  man  who  had  loved 
her  so  long,  in  her  own  way,  died  peacefully  on  the 
next  day,  loving  her  and  hoping  to  join  her,  and  having 
led  a  good  life.  After  that  there  was  peace,  and  they 
seemed  to  be  together. 

That  was  their  story  as  it  gradually  took  shape  out 
of  fragments  and  broken  visions,  and  though  the  man 
who  dreamt  these  things  could  not  conceive,  when  he 
remembered  them,  that  he  could  ever  become  at  all  a 
saintly  character,  yet  in  the  vision  he  knew  that  he  was 
always  himself,  and  all  that  he  thought  and  did  seemed 
natural,  though  it  often  seemed  hard,  and  he  suffered 
much  in  some  ways,  but  in  others  he  found  great 
happiness. 

It  was  a  simple  story  and  a  most  improbable  one. 
He  was  quite  sure  that  no  matter  in  what  age  he  might 
have  lived,  instead  of  in  the  twentieth  century,  he 
would  have  felt  and  acted  as  he  now  did  when  he  was 
wide  awake.     But  that  did  not  matter.     The  important 


A  STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  181 

point  was  that  his  imagination  was  making  for  him  a 
sort  of  secondary  existence  in  sleep,  in  which  he  was 
desperately  in  love  with  some  one  who  exactly  resem- 
bled Cecilia  Palladio  and  Avho  bore  her  first  name ;  and 
this  dreaming  created  such  a  strong  and  lasting  impres- 
sion in  his  mind  that,  in  real  life,  he  could  not  separate 
Cecilia  Palladio  from  Cecilia  the  Vestal,  and  found 
himself  on  the  point  of  saying  to  her  in  reality  the  very 
things  which  he  had  said  to  her  in  imagination  while 
sleeping.  The  worst  of  it  was  this  identity  of  the  real 
and  the  unreal,  for  he  was  persuaded  that  with  very 
small  opportunity  the  two  would  turn  into  one. 

He  hated  thinking,  under  all  circumstances,  as  com- 
pared with  action.  It  was  easier  to  follow  his  impulses, 
and  fortunately  for  him  they  were  brave  and  honour- 
able. He  never  analysed  his  feelings,  never  troubled 
himself  about  his  motives,  never  examined  his  con- 
science. It  told  him  well  enough  whether  he  was 
doing  right  or  wrong,  and  on  general  principles  he 
always  meant  to  do  right.  It  was  not  his  fault  if  his 
imagination  made  him  fall  in  love  in  a  dream  with  the 
young  girl  who  was  probably  to  be  his  friend's  wife. 
But  it  would  be  distinctly  his  fault  if  he  gave  himself 
the  chance  of  falling  in  love  with  her  in  reality. 

Moreover,  though  he  did  not  know  how  much  further 
Cecilia's  dream  coincided  with  his  own,  and  believed  it 
impossible  that  the  coincidence  should  be  nearly  as  com- 
plete as  it  seemed,  he  felt  that  she  would  love  him  if 
he  chose  that  she  should.  The  intuitions  of  very  mas- 
culine  men   about   women   are    far   keener   and   more 


182  CECILIA 

trustworthy  than  women  guess  ;  and  when  such  a  man 
is  not  devoured  by  fatuous  vanity  he  is  rarely  mistaken 
if  he  feels  sure  that  a  woman  he  meets  will  love  him, 
provided  that  circumstances  favour  him  ever  so  little. 
There  is  not  necessarily  the  least  particle  of  conceit  in 
that  certainty,  which  depends  on  the  direct  attraction 
between  any  two  beings  who  are  natural  complements 
to  each  other. 

Lamberti  was  a  man  who  had  the  most  profound 
respect  for  every  woman  who  deserved  to  be  respected 
ever  so  little,  and  a  good-natured  contempt  for  all  the 
rest,  together  with  a  careless  willingness  to  be  amused 
by  them.  And  of  all  the  women  in  the  world,  next  to 
his  own  mother,  the  one  whom  he  would  treat  with 
something  approaching  to  veneration  would  be  Guido's 
wife,  if  Guido  married. 

Without  any  reasoning,  it  was  plain  that  he  must 
see  as  little  as  possible  of  Cecilia  Palladio.  But  as  this 
would  not  please  Guido,  the  best  plan  was  to  go  away 
while  there  was  time.  In  all  probability,  when  he  next 
returned,  say  in  two  years,  he  would  no  longer  feel  the 
dangerous  attraction  that  was  almost  driving  him  out 
of  his  senses  at  present. 

He  had  been  in  Rome  some  time,  expecting  his  pro- 
motion to  the  rank  of  lieutenant-commander,  which 
would  certainly  be  accompanied  by  orders  to  join 
another  ship,  possibly  very  far  away.  If  he  showed 
himself  very  anxious  to  go  at  once,  before  his  leave 
expired,  the  Admiralty  would  probably  oblige  him, 
especially  as  he  just  now  cared  much  less  for  the  prom- 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN    ROME  188 

ised  step  in  the  service  than  for  getting  away  at  short 
notice.  The  best  thing  to  be  done  was  to  go  and  see 
the  Minister,  who  had  of  late  been  very  friendly  to 
him ;  everything  might  be  settled  in  half  an  hour,  and 
next  week  he  would  be  on  his  way  to  China,  or  South 
America,  or  East  Africa,  which  would  be  perfectly 
satisfactory  to  everybody  concerned. 

It  was  a  wise  and  honourable  resolution,  and  he 
determined  to  act  on  it  at  once.  His  hand  was  on  the 
door  to  go  out,  when  he  stopped  suddenly  and  stood 
quite  still  for  a  few  seconds.  It  was  as  if  something 
unseen  surrounded  him  on  all  sides,  in  the  air,  in- 
visible but  solid  as  lead,  making  it  impossible  for  him 
to  move.  It  did  not  last  long,  and  he  went  out,  won- 
dering at  his  nervousness. 

In  half  an  hour  he  was  in  the  presence  of  the  Min- 
ister, who  was  speaking  to  him. 

"You  are  promoted  to  the  rank  of  lieutenant- 
commander.  You  are  temporarily  attached  to  the 
ministerial  commission  which  is  to  study  the  Somali 
question,  which  you  understand  so  well  from  expe- 
rience on  the  spot.     His  Majesty  specially  desires  it." 

"  How  long  may  this  last,  sir  ?  "  enquired  Lamberti, 
with  a  look  of  blank  disappointment. 

"  Oh,  a  year  or  two,  I  should  say,"  laughed  the 
Minister.  "  They  do  not  hurry  themselves.  You  can 
enjoy  a  long  holiday  at  home." 


CHAPTER  XI 

Though  it  was  late  in  the  season,  everybody  wished 
to  do  something  to  welcome  the  appearance  of  Cecilia 
Palladio  in  society.  It  was  too  warm  to  give  balls,  but 
it  did  not  follow  that  it  was  at  all  too  hot  to  dance 
informally,  with  the  windows  open.  We  do  not  know 
why  a  ball  is  hotter  than  a  dance ;  but  it  is  so.  There 
are  things  that  men  do  not  understand. 

So  dinners  were  given,  to  which  young  people  were 
asked,  and  afterwards  an  artistic-looking  man  appeared 
from  somewhere  and  played  waltzes,  and  twenty  or  thirty 
couples  amused  themselves  to  their  hearts'  delight  till 
one  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Moreover,  people  who  had 
villas  gave  afternoon  teas,  without  any  pretence  of  giv- 
ing garden  parties,  and  there  also  the  young  ones  danced, 
sometimes  on  marble  pavements  in  great  old  rooms  that 
smelt  slightly  of  musty  furniture,  but  were  cool  and 
pleasant.  Besides  these  things,  there  were  picnic  din- 
ners at  Frascati  and  Castel  Gandolfo,  and  everybody 
drove  home  across  the  Campagna  by  moonlight.  Alto- 
gether, and  chiefly  in  Cecilia  Palladio's  honour,  there 
was  a  very  pretty  little  revival  of  winter  gaiety,  which 
is  not  always  very  gay  in  Rome,  nowadays. 

The  young  girl  accepted  it  all  much  more  graciously 
than  her  mother  had  expected,  and  was  ready  to  enjoy 

184 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN  ROME  186 

everything  that  people  offered  her,  which  is  a  great 
secret  of  social  success.  The  Countess  had  always 
feared  that  Cecilia  was  too  fond  of  books  and  of  serious 
talk  to  care  much  for  what  amuses  most  people.  But, 
instead,  she  suddenly  seemed  to  have  been  made  for 
society;  she  delighted  in  dancing,  she  liked  to  be  well 
dressed,  she  smiled  at  well-meaning  young  men  who 
made  compliments  to  her,  and  she  chatted  with  young 
girls  about  the  myriad  important  nothings  that  grow 
like  wild  flowers  just  outside  life's  gate. 

Every  one  liked  her,  and  she  let  almost  every  one  think 
that  she  liked  them.  She  never  said  disagreeable  things 
about  them,  and  she  never  attracted  to  herself  the  young 
gentleman  who  was  looked  upon  as  the  property  of 
another.  Every  one  said  that  she  was  going  to  marry 
d'Este  in  the  autumn,  though  the  engagement  was  not 
yet  announced.  Wherever  she  was,  he  was  there  also, 
generally  accompanied  by  his  inseparable  friend,  Lam- 
berto  Lamberti. 

The  latter  had  grown  thinner  during  the  last  few 
weeks.  When  any  one  spoke  of  it,  he  explained  that 
life  ashore  did  not  suit  him,  and  that  he  was  obliged  to 
work  a  good  deal  over  papers  and  maps  for  the  minis- 
terial commission.  But  he  was  evidently  not  much 
inclined  to  talk  of  himself,  and  he  changed  the  subject 
immediately.  His  life  was  not  easy,  for  he  was  not  only 
in  serious  trouble  himself,  but  he  was  also  becoming 
anxious  about  Guido. 

The  one  matter  about  which  a  man  is  instinctively 
reticent  with  his  most  intimate  man  friend  is  his  love 


186  CECILIA 

affair,  if  he  has  one.  He  would  rather  tell  a  woman  all 
about  it,  though  he  does  not  know  her  nearly  so  well, 
than  talk  about  it,  even  vaguely,  with  the  one  man  in 
the  world  whom  he  trusts.  Where  women  are  con- 
cerned, all  men  are  more  or  less  one  another's  natural 
enemies,  in  spite  of  civilisation  and  civilised  morals; 
and  each  knows  this  of  the  other,  and  respects  the 
other's  silence  as  both  inevitable  and  decent. 

Guido  had  told  Lamberti  that  he  should  be  the  first 
to  know  of  the  engagement  as  soon  as  there  was  any, 
and  Lamberti  waited.  He  did  not  know  whether  Guido 
had  spoken  yet,  nor  whether  there  was  any  sort  of 
agreement  between  him  and  Cecilia  by  which  the  latter 
was  to  give  her  answer  after  a  certain  time.  He  could 
not  guess  what  they  talked  of  during  the  hour  they 
spent  together  nearly  every  day.  People  made  inqui- 
ries of  him,  some  openly  and  some  by  roundabout  means, 
and  he  always  answered  that  if  his  friend  were  engaged 
to  be  married  he  would  assuredly  announce  the  fact  at 
once.  Those  who  received  this  answer  were  obliged  to 
be  satisfied  with  it,  because  Lamberti  was  not  the  kind 
of  man  to  submit  to  cross-questioning. 

He  wondered  whether  Cecilia  knew  that  he  loved 
her,  since  what  he  had  foreseen  had  happened,  and  he 
did  not  even  try  to  deny  the  fact  to  himself.  He  would 
not  let  his  thoughts  dwell  on  what  she  might  feel  for 
him,  for  that  would  have  seemed  like  the  beginning  of 
a  betrayal. 

She  never  asked  him  questions  nor  did  anything  to 
make  him  spend  more  time  near  her  than  was  inevitable, 


A   STORY    OF    MODERN   ROME  187 

and  neither  had  ever  gone  back  to  the  subject  of  their 
dreams.  She  had  asked  Lamberti  to  come  to  the  house 
at  an  hour  when  there  would  not  be  other  visitors,  but 
he  had  not  come,  and  neither  had  ever  referred  to  the 
matter  since.  He  sometimes  felt  that  she  was  watching 
him  earnestly,  but  at  those  times  he  would  not  meet  her 
eyes  lest  his  own  should  say  too  much. 

It  was  hard,  it  was  quite  the  hardest  thing  he  had 
ever  done  in  his  life,  and  he  was  never  quite  sure  that 
he  could  go  on  with  it  to  the  end.  But  it  was  the  only 
'lonourable  course  he  could  follow,  and  it  would  surely 
grow  easier  when  he  knew  definitely  that  Cecilia  meant 
to  marry  Guido.  It  was  bitter  to  feel  that  if  the  man 
had  been  any  one  but  his  friend,  there  would  have  been 
no  reason  for  making  any  such  sacrifice.  He  inwardly 
prayed  that  Cecilia  would  come  to  a  decision  soon,  and 
he  was  deeply  grateful  to  her  for  not  making  his  posi- 
tion harder  by  referring  to  their  first  conversation  at 
the  Villa  Madama. 

Guido  had  not  the  slightest  suspicion  of  the  true 
state  of  things,  but  he  himself  was  growing  impatient, 
and  daily  resolved  to  put  the  final  question.  Every 
day,  however,  he  put  it  off  again,  not  from  lack  of  cour- 
age, nor  even  because  he  was  naturally  so  very  indolent, 
but  because  he  felt  sure  that  the  answer  would  not  be 
the  one  hoped  for.  Though  Cecilia's  manner  with  him 
had  never  changed  from  the  first,  it  was  perfectly  clear 
that,  however  much  she  might  enjoy  his  conversation, 
she  was  calmly  indifferent  to  his  personality.  She  never 
blushed  with  pleasure  when  he  came,  nor  did  her  eyes 


188  CECILIA 

grow  sad  when  he  left  her ;  and  when  she  talked  with 
him  she  spoke  exactly  as  when  she  was  speaking  with 
her  mother.  He  listened  in  vain  for  an  added  earnest- 
ness of  tone,  meant  for  him  only  ;  it  never  came.  She 
liked  him,  beyond  doubt,  from  the  first,  and  liking  had 
changed  to  friendship  very  fast,  but  Guido  knew  how 
very  rarely  the  friendship  a  woman  feels  for  a  man  can 
ever  turn  to  love.  Starting  from  the  same  point,  it 
grows  steadily  in  another  direction,  and  its  calm  intel- 
lectual sympathy  makes  the  mere  suggestion  of  any 
unreasoning  impulse  of  the  heart  seem  almost  absurd. 

But  where  the  man  and  woman  do  not  feel  alike, 
this  state  of  things  cannot  last  for  ever,  and  when  it 
comes  to  an  end  there  is  generally  trouble  and  often 
bitterness.  Guido  knew  that  very  well  and  hesitated 
in  consequence. 

Princess  Anatolie  could  not  understand  the  reason 
for  this  delay,  and  was  not  at  all  pleased.  She  said  it 
would  be  positively  not  decent  if  the  girl  refused  to 
marry  Guido  after  acting  in  public  as  if  she  were  en- 
gaged to  him,  and  Monsieur  Leroy  agreed  with  her. 
She  asked  him  if  he  could  not  do  anything  to  hasten 
matters,  and  he  said  he  would  try.  The  old  lady  had 
felt  quite  sure  of  the  marriage,  and  in  imagination  she 
had  already  extracted  from  Guido's  wife  all  the  money 
she  had  made  Guido  lose  for  her.  It  is  now  hardly 
necessary  to  say  that  she  had  received  spirit  messages 
through  Monsieur  Leroy,  bidding  her  to  invest  money 
in  the  most  improbable  schemes,  and  that  she  had  fol- 
lowed his  advice  in  making  her  nephew  act  as  her  agent 


A   STORY   OF   MODEBlSr  ROME  189 

in  the  matter.  Monsieur  Leroy  had  pleaded  his  total 
ignorance  of  business  as  a  reason  for  keeping  out  of  the 
transaction,  by  which,  however,  it  may  be  supposed 
that  he  profited  indirectly  for  a  time.  He  never  hesi- 
tated to  say  that  the  unfortunate  result  was  due  to 
Guide's  negligence  and  failure  to  carry  out  the  instruc- 
tions given  him. 

But  the  Princess  knew  that  at  least  a  part  of  the 
fault  belonged  to  Monsieur  Leroy,  though  she  never 
had  the  courage  to  tell  him  so ;  and  though  it  looked 
as  if  nothing  could  sever  the  mysterious  tie  that  linked 
their  lives  together,  he  had  forfeited  some  of  his  influ- 
ence over  her  with  the  loss  of  the  money,  and  had  only 
recently  regained  it  by  convincing  her  that  she  was 
in  communication  with  her  dead  child.  So  long  as  he 
could  keep  her  in  this  belief  he  was  in  no  danger  of 
losing  his  power  again.  Od  the  contrary,  it  increased 
from  day  to  day. 

"  Guido  is  so  very  quixotic,"  he  said.  "  He  hesitates 
because  the  girl  is  so  rich.  But  we  may  be  able  to 
bring  a  little  pressure  to  bear  on  him.  After  all,  you 
have  his  receipts  for  all  the  money  that  passed  through 
his  hands." 

"  Unless  he  marries  this  girl,  they  are  not  worth  the 
paper  they  are  written  on." 

"  I  am  not  sure.  He  is  very  sensitive  about  matters 
of  honour.  Now  a  receipt  for  money  given  to  a  lady 
looks  to  me  very  much  like  a  debt  of  honour.  What 
happened  in  the  eyes  of  the  world?  You  lent  him 
money  which  he  lost  in  speculation." 


190  CECILIA 

"No  doubt,"  answered  the  Princess,  willing  to  be 
convinced  of  any  absurdity  that  could  help  her  to 
get  back  her  money.  "  But  when  a  man  has  no  means 
of  paying  a  debt  of  honour  — " 

"  He  shoots  himself,"  said  Monsieur  Leroy,  complet- 
ing the  sentence. 

"That  would  not  help  us.  Besides,  I  should  be 
very  sorry  if  anything  happened  to  Guido." 

"  Of  course  !  "  cried  Monsieur  Leroy.  "  Not  for 
worlds  !  But  nothing  need  happen  to  him.  You  have 
only  to  persuade  him  that  the  sole  way  to  save  his 
honour  is  to  marry  an  heiress,  and  he  will  marry  at 
once,  as  a  matter  of  conscience.  Unless  something  is 
done  to  move  him,  he  will  not." 

"  But  he  is  in  love  with  the  girl ! " 

"Enough  to  occupy  him  and  amuse  him.  That  is 
all.     By-the-bye,  where  are  those  receipts  ?  " 

"  In  the  small  strong-box,  in  the  lower  drawer  of  the 
writing  table." 

Monsieur  Leroy  found  the  papers,  and  transferred 
them  to  his  pocket-book,  not  yet  sure  how  he  could 
best  turn  them  to  account,  but  quite  certain  that  their 
proper  use  would  reveal  itself  to  him  before  long. 

"  And  besides,"  he  concluded,  "  we  can  always  make 
him  sell  the  Andrea  del  Sarto  and  the  Raphael. 
Baumgarten  thinks  they  are  worth  a  good  sum.  You 
know  that  he  buys  for  the  Berlin  gallery,  and  the 
British  Museum  people  think  everything  of  his 
opinion." 

In  this  way  the  Princess  and  her  favourite  disposed 


STORY    OF   MODERN   ROME  191 

of  Guido  and  his  property ;  but  he  would  not  have  been 
much  surprised  if  he  could  have  heard  their  conversa- 
tion. They  were  only  saying  what  he  had  expected  of 
them  as  far  back  as  the  day  when  he  had  talked  with 
Lamberti  in  the  garden  of  the  Arcadians. 


CHAPTER  XII 

It  is  not  strange  that  Cecilia  should  have  been  much 
less  disturbed  than  Lamberti  by  what  he  had  described 
to  the  doctor  as  a  possession  of  the  devil,  or  a  haunting. 
Men  who  have  never  been  ailing  in  their  lives  some- 
times behave  like  frightened  children  if  they  fall  ill, 
though  the  ailment  may  not  be  very  serious,  whereas  a 
hardened  old  invalid,  determined  to  make  the  best  of 
life  in  spite  of  his  ills,  often  laughs  himself  into  the 
belief  that  he  can  recover  from  the  two  or  three  mor- 
tal diseases  that  have  hold  of  him.  Bearing  bodily  pain 
is  a  mere  matter  of  habit,  as  every  one  knows  who  has 
had  to  bear  much,  or  who  has  tried  it  as  an  experiment. 
In  barbarous  countries  conspirators  have  practised  suf- 
fering the  tortures  likely  to  be  inflicted  on  them  to 
extract  confession. 

Lamberti  had  never  before  been  troubled  by  anything 
at  all  resembling  what  people  call  the  supernatural, 
nor  even  by  anything  unaccountable.  It  was  natural 
that  he  should  be  made  nervous  and  almost  ill  by  the 
persistence  of  the  dreams  that  had  visited  him  since  he 
had  met  Cecilia,  and  by  what  he  believed  to  be  the  clos- 
ing of  a  door  each  time  he  awoke  from  them. 

Cecilia,  on  the  contrary,  had  practised  dreaming  all 
her  life   and   was   not  permanently  disturbed  by  any 

192 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  193 

vision  that  presented  itself,  nor  by  anything  like  a 
"  phenomenon  "  which  might  accompany  it.  She  felt 
that  her  dreams  brought  her  nearer  to  a  truth  of  some 
sort,  hidden  from  most  of  the  world,  but  of  vital 
value,  and  after  which  she  was  groping  continually 
without  much  sense  of  direction.  The  specialist  whom 
Lamberti  had  consulted  would  have  told  her  plainly 
that  she  had  learned  to  hypnotise  herself,  and  a  Jap- 
anese Buddhist  monk  would  have  told  her  the  same 
thing,  adding  that  she  was  doing  one  of  the  most  dan- 
gerous things  possible.  The  western  man  of  science 
would  have  assured  her  that  a  certain  resemblance  of 
the  face  in  the  dream  to  Lamberti  was  a  mere  coinci- 
dence, and  that  since  she  had  met  him  the  likeness  had 
perfected  itself,  so  that  she  now  really  dreamed  of  Lam- 
berti ;  and  the  doctor  would  have  gone  on  to  say  that 
the  rest  of  her  vision  was  the  result  of  auto-suggestion, 
because  the  story  of  the  Vestal  Virgins  had  always  had 
a  very  great  attraction  for  her.  She  had  read  a  great 
deal  about  them,  she  had  followed  Giacomo  Boni's 
astonishing  discoveries  with  breathless  interest,  she 
knew  more  of  Roman  history  than  most  girls,  and  prob- 
ably more  than  most  men,  and  it  was  not  at  all  aston- 
ishing that  she  should  be  able  to  construct  a  whole 
imaginary  past  life  with  all  its  details  and  even  its  end, 
and  to  dream  it  all  at  will,  as  if  she  were  reading  a 
novel. 

She  would  have  admitted  that  the  pictured  history 
of  Cecilia,  the  last  Vestal,  had  been  at  first  fragmentary, 
and  had  gradually  completed  itself  in  her  visions,  and 


194  CECILIA 

that  even  now  it  was  constantly  growing,  and  that  it 
might  continue  to  grow,  and  even  to  change,  for  a  long 
time. 

Further,  if  the  specialist  had  known  positively  that 
similar  fragments  of  dreams  were  little  by  little  putting 
themselves  together  in  Lamberti's  imagination,  though 
the  latter  had  only  once  spoken  with  Cecilia  of  one  or 
two  coincidences,  he  would  have  said,  provided  that  he 
chose  to  be  frank  with  a  mere  girl,  that  no  one  knows 
much  about  telepathy,  and  that  modern  science  does 
not  deny  what  it  cannot  explain,  as  the  science  of  the 
nineteenth  century  did,  but  collects  and  examines  facts, 
only  requiring  to  be  persuaded  that  they  are  really 
facts  and  not  fictions.  No  one,  he  would  have  said, 
would  build  a  theory  on  one  instance ;  he  would  write 
down  the  best  account  of  the  case  which  he  could  find, 
and  would  then  proceed  to  look  for  another.  Since 
wireless  telegraphy  was  possible,  the  specialist  would 
not  care  to  seek  a  reason  why  telepathy  should  not  be  a 
possibility,  too.  If  it  were,  it  explained  thoroughly 
what  was  going  on  between  Cecilia  and  Lamberti ;  if  it 
were  not,  there  must  be  some  other  equally  satisfactory 
explanation,  still  to  be  found.  The  attitude  of  science 
used  to  be  extremely  aggressive,  but  she  has  advanced 
to  a  higher  stage  ;  in  these  days  she  is  serene.  Men  of 
science  still  occasionally  come  into  conflict  with  the 
official  representatives  of  different  beliefs,  but  science 
herself  no  longer  assails  religion.  Lamberti's  specialist 
professed  no  form  of  faith,  wherefore  he  would  rather 
not  have  been  called  upon  to  answer  all  three  o^  Kant's 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME   .  195 

questions :  What  can  I  know  ?  What  is  it  my  duty  to 
do  ?  What  may  I  hope  ?  But  it  by  no  means  followed 
that  his  answers,  it  he  gave  any,  would  have  been 
shocking  to  people  who  knew  less  and  hoped  more  than 
he  did. 

Cecilia  thought  much,  but  she  followed  no  such  form 
of  reasoning  to  convince  herself  that  her  experiences 
were  all  scientifically  possible ;  on  the  contrary,  the 
illusion  she  loved  best  was  the  one  which  science  and 
religion  alike  would  have  altogether  condemned  as  con- 
trary to  faith  and  revolting  to  reason,  namely,  her 
cherished  belief  that  she  had  really  once  lived  as  a 
Vestal  in  old  days,  and  had  died,  and  had  come  back  to 
earth  after  a  long  time,  irresistibly  drawn  towards  life 
after  having  almost  attained  to  perfect  detachment  from 
material  things. 

Her  meeting  with  Lamberti,  and,  most  of  all,  her 
one  short  conversation  with  him,  had  greatly  strength- 
ened her  illusion.  He  had  come  back,  too,  and  they 
understood  each  other.     But  that  should  be  all. 

Then  she  took  up  Nietzsche  again,  not  because  every 
one  read  Thus  spake  Zarathushthra^  or  was  supposed  to 
read  the  bobk,  and  talked  about  it  in  a  manner  that  dis- 
credited the  supposition,  but  because  she  wanted  to 
decide  once  for  all  whether  his  theory  of  the  endless 
return  to  life  at  all  suited  her  own  case. 

She  turned  over  the  pages,  but  she  knew  the  main 
thought  by  heart.  Time  is  infinite.  In  space  there  is 
matter  consisting  of  elements  which,  however  numerous, 
are  limited  in  number,  and  can  therefore  only  combine 


196  CECILIA 

in  a  finite  number  of  ways.  When  those  possible  com- 
binations are  exhausted,  they  must  repeat  themselves. 
And  because  time  is  infinite,  they  must  repeat  them- 
selves an  infinite  number  of  times.  Therefore  precisely 
the  same  combinations  have  returned  always  and  will 
return  again  and  again  for  ever.  Therefore  in  the  past, 
every  one  of  us  has  lived  precisely  the  same  life,  in 
a  precisely  similar  world,  an  infinite  number  of  times, 
and  will  live  the  same  life  over  again,  to  the  minutest 
detail,  an  infinite  number  of  times  in  the  future.  In 
the  fewest  words,  this  is  Nietzsche's  argument  to  prove 
what  he  calls  the  "  Eternal  Return." 

No.  That  was  not  at  all  what  she  wished  to  believe, 
nor  could  believe,  though  it  was  very  plausible  as  a 
theory.  If  men  lived  over  again,  they  did  not  live 
the  same  lives  but  other  lives,  worse  or  better  than 
the  first.  Nietzsche  in  this  was  speaking  only  of 
matter  which  combined  and  combined  again.  If  it 
did,  each  combination  might  have  a  new  soul  of  its 
own.  It  was  conceivable  that  different  souls  should 
be  made  to  suffer  and  enjoy  in  precisely  the  same  way. 
And  as  for  the  rest,  as  for  a  good  deal  of  Thus  spake 
Zarathiishthra^  including  the  Over-Man,  and  the  over- 
coming of  Pity,  and  the  Man  who  had  killed  God^ 
she  thought  it  merely  fantastic,  though  much  of  it 
was  very  beautiful  and  some  of  it  was  terrible,  and 
she  thought  she  had  understood  what  Nietzsche  meant. 

Tired  of  reading,  she  lay  back  in  her  deep  chair 
and  let  the  open  book  fall  upon  her  knees.  She  was 
in  her  own  room,  late  in  the  morning,  and  the  blinds 


A   STORY   OF  MODERN   EOME  197 

were  drawn  together  to  keep  out  the  glare  of  the 
wide  street,  for  it  was  June  and  the  summer  was  at 
hand.  Outside,  the  air  was  all  alive  with  the  com- 
ing heat,  as  it  is  in  Italy  at  the  end  of  spring,  and 
perhaps  nowhere  else.  The  sunshine  seems  to  grow 
in  it,  like  a  living  thing,  that  also  fills  everything 
with  life.  It  gets  into  the  people,  too,  and  into  their 
voices,  and  even  the  grave  Romans  unbend  a  little, 
and  laugh  more  gaily,  and  their  step  is  more  elastic. 
By-and-by,  when  the  full  warmth  of  summer  fills  the 
city,  the  white  streets  will  be  almost  deserted  in  the 
middle  of  the  day,  and  men  who  have  to  be  abroad 
will  drag  themselves  along  where  the  walls  cast  a 
narrow  shade,  and  everything  will  grow  lazy  and 
sleepy  and  silently  hot.  But  the  first  good  sunshine 
in  June  is  to  the  southern  people  the  elixir  of  life, 
the  magic  gold-mist  that  floats  before  the  coming 
gods,  the  breath  of  the  gods  themselves  breathed 
into  mortals. 

Within  the  girl's  room  the  light  was  very  soft  on 
the  pale  blue  damask  hangings,  and  a  gentle  air  blew 
now  and  then  from  window  to  window,  as  if  a  sweet 
spirit  passed  by,  bringing  a  message  and  taking  one 
away.  It  stirred  Cecilia's  golden  hair,  and  fanned 
her  forehead,  and  somehow,  just  then,  it  brought 
intuitions  of  beautiful  unknown  things  with  it,  and 
inspiration  with  peace,  and  clear  sight. 

Maidenhood  is  blessed  with  such  moments,  beyond 
all  other  states.  In  all  times  and  in  all  countries  it 
has   been   half   divine,   and    ever    mysteriously   linked 


198  CECILIA 

with  divine  things.  The  maid  was  ever  the  priestess, 
the  prophetess,  and  the  seer,  whose  eyes  looked  beyond 
the  veil  and  whose  ears  heard  the  voices  of  the  immor- 
tals; and  she  of  Orleans  was  not  the  only  maiden, 
though  she  was  the  last,  that  lifted  her  fallen  country 
up  out  of  despair  and  led  men  to  fight  and  victory  who 
would  follow  no  man-leader  where  all  had  failed. 

Maidenhood  meets  evil,  and  passes  by  on  the  other 
side,  not  seeing;  maidenhood  is  whole  and  perfect  in 
itself  and  sweetly  careless  of  what  it  need  not  know ; 
maidenhood  dreams  of  a  world  that  is  not,  nor  was,  nor 
shall  be,  hitherwards  of  heaven ;  maidenhood  is  angel- 
hood. In  its  unconsciousness  of  evil  lies  its  strength, 
in  its  ignorance  of  itself  lies  its  danger. 

Cecilia  was  not  trying  to  call  up  visions  now;  she 
was  thinking  of  her  life,  and  wondering  what  was  to 
happen,  and  now  and  then  she  was  asking  herself  what 
she  ought  to  do.  Should  she  marry  Guido  d'Este,  or 
not  ?  That  was  the  sum  of  her  thoughts  and  her  won- 
derings  and  her  questions. 

She  knew  she  was  perfectly  free,  and  that  her  mother 
would  never  try  to  make  her  marry  against  her  will. 
But  if  she  married  Guido,  would  she  be  acting  against 
her  will? 

In  her  own  mind  she  was  well  aware  that  he  would 
speak  whenever  she  chose  to  let  him  do  so.  The  most 
maidenly  girl  of  eighteen  knows  when  a  man  is  waiting 
for  an  opportunity  to  ask  her  to  be  his  wife,  whereas 
most  young  men  who  are  much  in  love  do  not  know 
exactly  when  they  are  going  to  put  the  question,  and  are 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN    ROME  199 

often  surprised  when  it  rises  to  their  lips.  Cecilia  con- 
sidered that  issue  a  foregone  conclusion.  The  vital  mat- 
ter was  to  find  out  her  own  answer. 

She  had  never  known  any  man,  since  her  step-father 
died,  whom  she  liked  nearly  as  much  as  Guido,  and  she 
had  met  more  interesting  and  gifted  men  before  she  was 
really  in  society  than  most  women  ever  know  in  a  life- 
time. She  liked  him  so  much  that  if  he  had  any  faults 
she  could  not  see  them,  and  she  did  not  believe  that  he 
had  any  which  deserved  the  name.  But  that  was  not 
the  question.  No  woman  likes  a  man  because  he  has  no 
faults  ;  on  the  contrary,  if  he  has  a  few,  she  thinks  it 
will  be  her  mission  to  eradicate  them,  and  reform  him 
according  to  her  ideal.  She  believes  that  it  will  be 
easy,  and  she  knows  that  it  will  be  delightful  to  succeed, 
because  no  other  woman  has  succeeded  before.  That 
is  one  reason  why  the  wildest  rakes  are  often  loved 
by  the  best  of  women. 

Cecilia  liked  Guido  for  his  own  sake,  and  felt  an  in- 
tellectual sympathy  for  him  which  took  the  place  of 
what  she  had  sorely  missed  since  her  step-father  died ; 
she  liked  him  also,  because  he  was  always  ready  to  do 
whatever  she  wished ;  and  because,  with  the  exception 
of  that  one  day  at  the  Villa  Madama,  his  moral  attitude 
before  her  was  one  of  respectful  and  chivalrous  devo- 
tion ;  and  also  because  he  and  she  were  fond  of  the  same 
things,  and  because  he  took  her  seriously  and  never  told 
her  that  she  was  wasting  time  in  trying  to  understand 
Kant  and  Fichte  and  Hegel,  though  he  possibly  thought 
so  ;  and  she  liked  the  little  ways  he  had,  and  his  mod- 


200  CECILIA 

esty,  though  he  knew  so  much,  and  his  simple  manner 
of  dressing,  and  the  colour  of  his  hair,  and  a  sort  of 
very  faint  atmosphere  of  Russian  leather,  good  cigarettes, 
and  Cologne  water  that  was  always  about  him.  There 
were  a  great  many  reasons  why  she  was  fond  of  him. 
For  instance,  she  had  found  that  he  never  repeated  to 
any  one,  not  even  to  Lamberti,  a  word  of  any  conver- 
sation they  had  together ;  and  if  any  one  at  a  dinner 
party  or  at  a  picnic  attacked  any  favourite  idea  or  theory 
of  hers,  he  defended  it,  using  all  her  arguments  as  well 
as  his  own  ;  and  when  he  knew  she  could  say  something 
clever  in  the  general  talk,  he  always  said  something 
else  which  made  it  possible  for  her  to  bring  out  her  own 
speech,  and  he  was  always  apparently  just  as  much 
pleased  with  it  as  if  he  had  not  heard  it  already,  when 
they  had  been  alone.  It  would  be  impossible  to  enu- 
merate all  the  reasons  why  she  was  sure  that  there  was 
nobody  like  him. 

She  knew  that  what  she  felt  for  him  was  affection,  and 
she  was  quite  willing  to  believe  that  it  was  love.  He 
certainly  had  no  rival  with  her  at  that  time,  and  if  she 
hesitated,  it  was  because  the  thought  of  marriage  itself 
was  repugnant  to  her. 

In  the  secondary  life  of  her  imagination  she  was 
bound  by  the  most  solemn  vows,  and  under  the  most 
terrible  penalties,  to  preserve  herself  intact  from  the 
touch  of  man.  In  the  dream,  it  was  sacrilege  for  a  man 
to  love  her,  and  meant  death  to  love  him  in  return. 
She  knew  that  it  was  a  dream,  but  she  loved  to 
believe  that  all  the  dream  was  true,  and  she  was  too 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  201 

much  accustomed  to  the  thought  not  to  be  iufluenced 
by  it. 

There  are  great  actors  who  become  so  used  to  a 
favourite  part  that  they  go  on  acting  it  in  real  life,  and 
have  sometimes  gone  mad  in  the  end,  it  is  said,  believ- 
ing themselves  really  to  be  the  heroes  or  tyrants  they 
have  represented.  Only  great  second-rate  actors 
"learn"  their  parts  and  attain  to  a  sort  of  perfection 
in  them  by  mechanical  means.  The  really  great  first- 
rate  artists  make  themselves  a  secondary  existence  by 
self-suggestion,  and  really  have  two  selves,  one  that 
thinks  and  acts  like  Othello,  or  Hamlet,  or  Louis  the 
Eleventh,  the  other  that  goes  through  life  with  the 
opinions,  convictions,  and  principles  of  Sir  Henry 
Irving,  of  Tommaso  Salvini,  or  of  Madame  Sarah  Bern- 
hardt. 

In  a  higher  degree,  because  she  had  never  learned 
but  one  part,  and  that  one  proceeded  in  some  way  out 
of  her  own  intelligence,  Cecilia  was  in  the  same  state 
of  dual  consciousness,  and  if  her  waking  life  was  influ- 
enced by  her  imaginary  existence  in  dreams,  her  dreams 
were  probably  affected  also  by  her  waking  life. 

"  Thou  shalt  so  act,  as  to  be  worthy  of  happiness," 
said  her  favourite  philosopher.  She  could  undoubtedly 
marry  Guido,  in  spite  of  her  imaginary  vows,  if  she 
chose  to  shake  off  the  shadowy  bond  by  an  act  of  every- 
day will.  Would  that  be  acting  so  as  to  deserve  to  be 
happy?  What  is  happiness?  The  belief  that  one  is 
happy;  nothing  else.  As  Guido's  wife,  should  she 
believe  that  she  was  happy  ?     Yes,  if  there  were  happi- 


202  CECILIA 

ness  to  be  found  in  marriage.  But  she  was  happy 
already  without  it,  and  would  always  be  so,  she  was 
sure.  Therefore  she  would  be  risking  a  certainty  for  a 
possibility.  "  Who  leaves  the  old  and  takes  new,  knows 
what  he  leaves,  not  what  he  may  find  " ;  so  says  the  old 
Italian  proverb.  And  again,  she  had  heard  a  friend  of 
her  step-father's  say  with  a  laugh  that  hope  seems  cheap 
food,  but  is  always  paid  for  by  those  who  live  on  it. 

To  act  so  as  to  be  worthy  of  happiness,  meant  to  act 
in  such  a  way  that  the  reason  for  each  action  might  be 
a  law  for  the  happiness  of  all.  That  was  the  Categorical 
Imperative,  and  Cecilia  believed  in  it. 

Then,  if  she  married  Guido,  she  ought  to  be  sure  that 
all  young  girls  in  her  position  would  marry  under  the 
circumstances,  and  that  the  majority  of  them  would  be 
happy.  With  a  return  of  practical  sense  from  the  regions 
of  philosophy,  she  asked  herself  how  she  should  feel  if 
Guido  married  some  one  else,  one  of  the  many  young 
girls  who  were  among  her  friends.  Should  she  be 
jealous  ? 

At  the  mere  thought  she  felt  a  little  dull  sinking  that 
was  anticipated  disappointment.  Yes,  she  liked  him 
enough,  she  was  fond  enough  of  him  to  miss  him  terribly 
if  he  were  taken  away  from  her.  This  was  undoubtedly 
love,  she  thought.  She  could  not  be  happy  without 
that  companionship,  though  she  wished  that  it  might 
continue  all  her  life,  without  the  necessity  of  being 
married  to  him. 

Of  all  the  other  men  she  had  met  during  the  last 
month,  the  only  one  whom  she  instinctively  understood 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  203 

was  Lamberti,  but  that  was  different.  It  was  the  under- 
standing of  a  fear  that  was  sometimes  ahnost  abject; 
it  was  the  certainty  that  if  he  only  would,  he  could  lead 
her  anywhere,  make  her  do  anything,  direct  her  as  he 
directed  his  own  hand.  When  she  had  met  him  in  the 
house  of  the  Vestals,  she  had  been  sure  that  if  she  stood 
a  moment  longer  where  he  had  come  upon  her,  he  would 
take  her  in  his  arms  and  kiss  her,  and  she  would  not 
resist.  It  was  of  no  use  to  argue  about  it,  to  tell  her- 
self that  she  would  have  been  safe  on  a  desert  island 
with  Guidons  trusted  friend ;  the  conviction  was  strong. 
At  the  Villa  Madama,  he  had  made  her  say  what  he 
pleased,  go  with  him  where  he  chose,  tell  him  her  secret. 
It  was  too  horrible  for  words.  She  had  asked  him  to 
come  to  see  her  at  an  hour  when  there  would  be  no 
visitors,  and  she  knew  that  she  had  meant  to  see  him 
alone,  in  spite  of  her  mother,  and  even  by  stealth  if  need 
were.  When  he  was  out  of  her  sight,  his  influence  was 
gone  with  him,  and  she  thanked  heaven  that  he  had  not 
come,  and  that  he  apparently  took  care  never  to  be  alone 
with  her  for  a  moment  now.  He  had  only  to  look  at 
her  in  a  certain  way,  and  she  must  obey  him ;  if  he  ever 
touched  her  hand  she  would  be  his  slave,  powerless  to 
resist  him. 

Sometimes  she  could  not  help  looking  at  him,  but 
then  he  never  turned  his  eyes  towards  her,  and  she  was 
thankful  when  she  could  turn  hers  away.  When  he 
was  not  present,  she  hoped  that  she  might  never  see  his 
face  again,  except  in  dreams,  for  there  he  was  not  the 
same.     There,  but  for  that  one  passionate  kiss  that  told 


204  CECILIA 

all,  he  was  tender,  and  gentle,  and  true,  and  he  listened 
to  her,  and  in  the  end  he  lived  as  she  wished  him  to  live. 
But  he  had  come  back  to  life  with  the  same  face,  another 
man  —  one  whom  she  feared  as  she  feared  nothing  in 
the  world,  and  few  things  beyond  it,  for  he  was  born 
her  master,  and  was  strong,  and  had  ruthless  eyes. 
Even  Guido  could  not  save  her  from  him,  she  was  sure. 

Yet  in  spite  of  all  this,  she  could  meet  him  with  out- 
ward indifference  in  the  world,  before  other  people. 
She  felt  that  there  was  no  danger  so  long  as  she  was 
not  alone  with  him,  because  he  would  not  dare  to  use 
his  power,  and  the  world  protected  her  by  its  cheerful, 
careless  presence.  She  did  not  hate  him,  she  only 
feared  him,  with  every  part  of  her,  body  and  soul. 

She  was  sure  that  he  knew  it,  but  she  was  not  grate- 
ful to  him  for  avoiding  her.  She  could  not  be  grateful 
to  any  one  of  whom  she  was  in  terror.  It  was  merely 
his  will  to  avoid  her,  or  perhaps,  as  Guido  seemed  to 
think,  he  did  not  like  her  ;  or  possibly  it  was  for  Guido's 
sake,  because  Guido  trusted  him,  and  he  was  a  man 
of  honour. 

He  was  that  beyond  doubt,  for  every  one  said  so,  and 
she  knew  that  he  was  brave ;  but  though  he  might 
possess  every  quality  and  virtue  under  the  sun,  she 
could  never  be  less  afraid  of  him.  Her  fear  had  nothing 
to  do  with  his  character;  it  was  bodily  and  spiritual, 
not  reasonable.  She  had  found  out  that  he  was  per- 
fectly truthful,  for  nothing  he  said  escaped  her,  and 
Guido  told  her  that  he  was  kind,  but  that  was  hard  to 
believe  of  any  one  with  those  eyes.     Yet  the  man  in  the 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  205 

dream  was  gentleness  itself,  and  his  eyes  never  gliUeied 
when  they  looked  at  her. 

To  think  that  she  could  ever  love  Lamberti  was 
utterly  absurd.  When  she  was  married  to  Guido  she 
would  tell  him  that  she  feared  his  friend.  Now,  it  was 
impossible.  He  would  smile  quietly  and  tell  her  there 
was  nothing  to  be  afraid  of ;  he  would  smile,  too,  if  she 
told  him  that  she  had  a  dual  existence,  and  dreamed 
herself  into  the  other  every  day. 

And  now  she  was  smiling,  too,  as  she  thought  of  him, 
for  she  had  thought  too  long  about  Lamberti,  and  it  was 
soothing  to  go  back  to  Guido's  companionship  and  to 
all  that  her  real  affection  for  him  meant  to  her.  It  was 
like  coming  home  after  a  dangerous  journey.  There 
he  was,  always  the  same,  his  hands  stretched  out  to 
welcome  her  back.  She  would  have  just  that  sensation 
presently  when  he  came  to  luncheon,  and  he  would 
have  just  that  look.  She  and  he  were  made  to  spend 
endless  days  together,  sometimes  talking,  sometimes 
thoughtful  and  silent,  always  happy,  and  calm,  and 
utterly  peaceful. 

After  all,  she  thought,  what  more  could  a  woman 
ask  ?  With  each  other's  society  and  her  fortune,  they 
would  have  all  the  world  held  that  was  pleasant  and 
beautiful  around  them,  and  they  would  enjoy  it  to- 
gether, as  long  as  it  lasted,  and  it  would  never  make 
the  least  difference  to  them  that  they  should  grow  old, 
and  older,  until  the  end  came ;  and  at  eighteen  it  was 
of  no  use  to  think  of  that. 

Surely  this  was  love,  at  its  best,  and  of  the  kind  that 


206  CECILIA 

must  last;  and  if,  after  all,  in  order  to  get  such  happi- 
ness as  that  seemed,  there  was  no  way  except  to  marry, 
why  then,  she  must  do  as  others  did  and  be  Guido  d'Este's 
wife. 

What  could  she  know?  That  she  loved  him,  in  a 
way  not  at  all  like  what  she  had  supposed  to  be  the  way 
of  love,  but  sincerely  and  truly.  V/hat  should  she  do? 
She  should  marry  him,  since  that  was  necessary.  What 
might  she  hope  ?  She  could  hope  for  a  lifetime  of  hap- 
piness. Should  she  then  have  acted  so  as  to  deserve  it? 
Yes.  Why  not  ?  Might  the  reason  for  her  marriage  be  a 
rule  for  others  ?    Yes,  for  others  in  exactly  the  same  case. 

So  she  smilingly  answered  the  mightiest  questions  of 
transcendental  philosophy  as  if  they  all  referred  to  the 
pleasant  world  in  which  she  lived,  instead  of  to  the  lofty 
regions  of  Pure  Reason.  In  that,  indeed,  she  knew  that 
she  was  playing  with  them,  or  applying  them  empirically, 
if  any  one  chose  to  define  in  those  terms  what  she  was 
doing.  After  all,  why  should  she  not?  Of  the  three 
questions,  the  first  only  was  "  speculative,"  and  the  other 
two  were  "  practical."     The  philosopher  himself  said  so. 

Besides,  it  did  not  matter,  for  Guido  d'Este  was  com- 
ing to  luncheon,  and  afterwards  her  mother  would  go 
and  write  notes,  unless  she  dozed  a  little  in  her  boudoir, 
as  she  sometimes  did  while  the  two  talked;  and  then 
Cecilia  would  say  something  quite  natural,  but  quite 
new,  and  she  would  let  her  look  linger  in  Guido's  a 
little  longer  than  ever  before,  and  then  he  would  ask  her 
to  marry  him.  It  was  all  decided  beforehand  in  her 
small  head. 


A    STORY   OF   MODERN    ROME  207 

She  was  glad  that  it  was,  and  she  felt  much  happier 
at  the  prospect  of  what  was  commgthan  she  had  expected. 
That  must  be  a  sign  that  she  really  loved  Guido  in  the 
right  way,  and  the  pleasant  little  thrill  of  excitement 
she  felt  now  and  again  could  only  be  due  to  that ;  it 
would  be  outrageous  to  suppose  that  it  was  caused  merely 
by  the  certainty  that  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was 
going  to  receive  an  offer  of  marriage.  Why  should  any 
young  girl  care  for  such  a  thing,  unless  she  meant  to 
marry  the  man,  and  why  in  the  world  should  it  give  her 
any  pleasure  to  hear  a  man  stammer  something  that 
would  be  unintelligible  if  it  were  not  expected,  and  then 
see  him  wait  with  painful  anxiety  for  the  answer  which 
every  woman  likes  to  hesitate  a  little  in  giving,  in  order 
that  it  may  have  its  full  value  ?  Such  doings  are  mani- 
festly wicked,  unless  they  are  sheer  nonsense  ! 

Cecilia  rose  and  rang  for  her  maid ;  for  it  was  twelve 
o'clock,  and  Romans  lunch  at  half-past  twelve,  because 
they  do  not  begin  the  day  between  eight  and  nine  in 
the  morning  with  ham  and  eggs,  omelets  and  bacon, 
beefsteak  and  onions,  fried  liver,  cold  joints,  tongue, 
cold  ham  and  pickles,  hot  cakes,  cold  cakes,  hot  bread, 
cold  bread,  butter,  jam,  honey,  fruit  of  all  kinds  in  season, 
tea,  coffee,  chocolate,  and  a  tendency  to  complain  that 
they  have  not  had  enough,  which  is  the  unchangeable 
custom  of  the  conquering  races,  as  everybody  knows. 
It  is  true  that  the  conquerors  do  not  lunch  to  any  great 
extent ;  they  go  on  conquering  from  breakfast  till  dinner 
time  without  much  intermission,  because  that  is  their 
business  ;  but  it  is  believed  that  their  women,  who  stay 


208  CECILIA 

at  home,  have  a  little  something  at  twelve,  luncheon  at 
half-past  two,  tea  between  five  and  six,  dinner  at  eight, 
and  supper  about  midnight,  when  they  can  get  it. 

Cecilia  rang  for  the  excellent  Petersen,  and  said 
that  she  would  wear  the  new  costume  which  had 
arrived  from  Doucet's  two  days  ago. 

There  was  certainly  no  reason  why  she  should  not 
wish  to  look  well  on  this  day  of  all  others,  and  as  she 
turned  and  saw  herself  in  the  glass,  she  had  not  the 
least  thought  of  making  a  better  impression  than  usual 
on  Guido.  She  was  far  too  sure  of  herself  for  that. 
If  she  chose,  he  would  ask  her  to  marry  him  though 
she  might  be  dressed  in  an  old  waterproof  and  over- 
shoes. It  was  merely  because  she  was  happy  and  was 
sure  that  she  was  going  to  do  the  right  thing.  When 
a  normal  woman  is  very  happy,  she  puts  on  a  perfectly 
new  frock,  if  she  has  one,  in  real  life  or  on  the  stage, 
even  when  she  is  not  going  to  be  seen  by  any  one  in 
particular.  In  this,  therefore,  Cecilia  only  followed  the 
instinct  of  her  kind,  and  if  the  pretty  new  costume  had 
not  chanced  to  have  come  from  Paris,  she  would  not 
have  missed  it  at  all,  but  would  have  worn  something 
else.  As  it  happened  to  be  ready,  however,  it  would 
have  been  a  pity  not  to  put  it  on,  since  she  expected  to 
remember  that  particular  day  all  the  rest  of  her  life. 

Petersen  said  it  was  perfection,  and  Cecilia  was  not 
far  from  thinking  so,  toa 


t 


CHAPTER  XIII 

GuiDO  d'Estb  was  already  in  the  drawing-room  with 
the  Countess  when  Cecilia  entered,  but  she  knew  by 
their  faces  and  voices  that  they  had  not  been  talking 
of  her,  and  was  glad  of  it;  for  sometimes,  when  she 
was  quite  sure  that  they  had,  she  felt  a  little  embar- 
rassment at  first,  and  found  Guido  a  trifle  absent- 
minded  for  some  time  afterwards. 

She  took  his  hand,  and  perhaps  she  held  it  a  second 
longer  than  usual,  and  she  looked  into  his  eyes  as  she 
spoke  to  her  mother.  Yesterday  she  would  have  very 
likely  looked  at  her  mother  while  speaking  to  him. 

"  I  hope  I  am  not  late,"  she  said.  "  Have  I  kept  you 
waiting?" 

"  It  was  worth  while,  if  you  did,"  Guido  said,  look- 
ing at  her  with  undisguised  admiration. 

"It  really  is  a  success,  is  it  not?"  Cecilia  asked, 
turning  to  her  mother  now,  for  approval. 

Then  she  turned  slowly  round,  raised  herself  on  tip- 
toe a  moment,  came  back  to  her  original  position,  and 
smiled  happily.  Guido  waited  for  the  Countess  to 
speak. 

"Yes  —  yes,"  the  latter  answered  critically,  but 
almost  satisfied.  "When  one  has  a  figure  like  yours, 
my  dear,  one  should  always  have  things  quite  perfect, 
r  209 


210  CECILIA 

A  woman  who  has  a  good  figure  and  is  really  well 
dressed,  hardly  ever  needs  a  pin.  Let  me  see.  Does 
it  not  draw  under  the  right  arm,  just  the  slightest 
bit  ?  Put  your  arm  down,  child,  let  it  hang  naturally ! 
So.  No,  I  was  mistaken,  there  is  nothing.  You  really 
ought  to  keep  your  arm  in  the  right  position,  darling. 
It  makes  so  much  difference !  You  are  not  going  to 
play  tennis,  or  ride  a  bicycle  in  that  costume.  No,  of 
course  not!  Well,  then  —  you  understand.  Do  be 
careful ! " 

Cecilia  looked  at  Guido  and  smiled  again,  and  her 
lips  parted  just  enough  to  show  her  two  front  teeth  a 
little,  and  then,  still  parted,  grew  grave,  which  gave 
her  an  expression  Guido  had  never  seen.  For  a 
moment  there  was  something  between  a  question  and 
an  appeal  in  her  face. 

"It  is  very  becoming,"  he  said  gravely.  "It  is  a 
pleasure  to  see  anything  so  faultless." 

"  I  am  glad  you  really  like  it,"  she  answered.  "  I 
always  want  you  to  like  my  things." 

Everything  happened  exactly  as  she  had  expected 
and  wished,  and  the  Countess,  when  she  had  sipped  her 
cup  of  coffee  after  luncheon,  went  to  the  writing  table 
in  the  boudoir,  and  though  the  door  was  open  into  the 
great  drawing-room,  she  was  out  of  sight,  and  out  of 
hearing  too. 

Cecilia  did  not  sit  down  again  at  once,  but  moved 
slowly  about,  went  to  one  of  the  windows  and  looked 
down  at  the  white  street  through  the  slats  of  the 
closed  blinds,  turned  and  met  Guido's  eyes,  for  he  was 


A   STORY   OF   MODESN^   EOME  211 

watching  her,  and  at  last  stood  still  not  far  from  him, 
but  a  little  further  from  the  open  door  of  the  boudoir 
than  he  was.  At  the  end  of  the  room  a  short  sofa  was 
placed  across  the  corner;  before  it  stood  a  low  table 
on  which  lay  a  few  large  books,  of  the  sort  that  are 
supposed  to  amuse  people  who  are  waiting  for  the  lady 
of  the  house,  or  who  are  stranded  alone  in  the  evening 
when  every  one  else  is  talking.  They  are  always 
books  of  the  type  described  as  magnificent  and  not 
dear ;  if  they  were  really  valuable,  they  would  not  be 
left  there. 

"  How  you  watch  me  !  "  Cecilia  smiled,  as  if  she  did 
not  object  to  being  watched.  "  Come  and  sit  down," 
she  added,  without  waiting  for  an  answer. 

She  established  herself  in  one  corner  of  the  short 
sofa  behind  the  table,  Guide  took  his  place  in  the 
other,  and  there  would  not  have  been  room  for  a  third 
person  between  them.  The  two  had  never  sat  together 
in  that  particular  place,  and  there  was  a  small  sensation 
of  novelty  about  it  which  was  delightful  to  them  both. 
There  was  not  the  least  calculation  of  such  a  thing  in 
Cecilia's  choice  of  the  sofa,  but  only  the  unerring  in- 
stinct of  woman  which  outwits  man's  deepest  schemes 
at  every  turn  in  life. 

"  Yes,"  Guido  said,  "  I  was  watching  you.  I  often 
do,  for  it  is  good  to  look  at  you.  Why  should  one  not 
get  as  much  aesthetic  pleasure  as  possible  out  of  life  ?  " 

The  speech  was  far  from  brilliant,  for  Guido  was 
beginning  to  feel  the  spell,  and  was  not  thinking  so 
much  of  what  he  was  saying  as  of  what  he  longed  to 


212  CECILIA 

say.  Most  clever  men  are  dull  enough  to  suppose  that 
they  bore  women  when  they  suddenly  lose  their  clever- 
ness and  say  rather  foolish  things  with  an  air  of 
conviction,  instead  of  very  witty  things  with  a  studied 
look  of  indifference.  The  hundred  and  fifty  genera- 
tions of  men,  more  or  less,  that  separate  us  moderns 
from  the  days  of  Eden,  never  found  out  that  those  are 
the  very  moments  at  which  a  woman  first  feels  her 
power,  and  that  it  is  much  less  dangerous  to  bore  her 
just  then  than  before  or  afterwards.  It  is  a  rare  de- 
light to  her  to  feel  that  her  mere  look  can  turn  care- 
less wit  to  earnest  foolishness.  For  nothing  is  ever 
more  in  earnest  than  real  folly,  except  real  love. 

"  You  always  say  nice  things,"  Cecilia  answered,  and 
Guido  was  pleasantly  surprised,  for  he  had  been  quite 
sure  that  the  silly  compliment  was  hardly  worth  answer- 
ing. 

"  And  you  are  always  kind,"  he  said  gratefully. 
"  Always  the  same,"  he  added  after  a  moment,  with  a 
little  accent  of  regret. 

"  Am  I  ?  You  say  it  as  if  you  wished  I  might  some- 
times change.     Is  that  what  you  mean?  " 

She  looked  down  at  her  hands,  that  lay  in  her  lap 
motionless  and  white,  one  upon  the  other,  on  the  deli- 
cate dove -coloured  stuff  of  her  frock  ;  and  her  voice 
was  rather  low. 

"  No,"  Guido  answered.     "  That  is  not  what  I  mean." 

"  Then  I  do  not  understand,"  she  said,  neither  moving 
nor  looking  up. 

Guido  said  nothing.     He  leaned  forwards,  his  elbows 


A   STORY  OF  MODERN  ROME  213 

on  his  knees,  and  stared  down  at  the  Persian  rug  that 
lay  before  the  sofa  on  the  smooth  matting.  It  was  warm 
and  still  in  the  great  room. 

"  Try  and  make  me  understand." 

Still  he  was  silent.  Without  changing  his  position  he 
glanced  at  the  open  door  of  the  boudoir.  The  Countess 
was  invisible  and  inaudible.  Guido  could  hear  the 
young  girl's  soft  and  regular  breathing,  and  he  felt  the 
pulse  in  his  own  throat.  He  knew  that  he  must  say 
something,  and  yet  the  only  thing  he  could  think  of  to 
say  was  that  he  loved  her. 

"  Try  and  make  me  understand,"  she  repeated.  "  I 
think  you  could." 

He  started  and  changed  his  position  a  little.  He  had 
been  accustomed  so  long  to  the  belief  that  if  he  spoke 
out  frankly  the  thread  of  his  intercourse  with  her  would 
be  broken,  that  he  made  a  strong  effort  to  get  back  to 
the  ordinary  tone  of  their  conversation. 

"  Do  you  never  say  absurd  things  that  have  no  mean- 
ing?" he  asked,  and  tried  to  laugh. 

''  It  was  not  what  you  said,''  Cecilia  answered  quietly. 
"  It  was  the  way  you  said  it,  as  if  you  rather  regretted 
saying  that  I  am  always  the  saine.  I  should  be  sorry  if 
you  thought  that  an  absurd  speech." 

"  You  know  that  I  do  not  I  '  cried  Guido,  with  a  little 
indignation.  "  We  understand  each  other  so  well,  as  a 
rule,  but  there  is  something  you  will  never  understand, 
I  am  afraid." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  wish  you  would  explain,"  replied 
the  young  girl,  unmoved. 


214  CECILIA 

"  Are  you  in  earnest?  "  Guido  asked,  suddenly  turning 
his  face  to  her. 

"  Of  course.  We  are  such  good  friends  that  it  is  a 
pity  there  should  ever  be  the  least  little  bit  of  misunder- 
standing between  us." 

"  You  talk  about  it  very  philosophically !  " 

"  About  what  ?  "  She  had  felt  that  she  must  make 
him  lose  patience,  and  she  succeeded. 

"After  all,  I  am  a  man,"  he  said  rather  hoarsely. 
''  Do  you  suppose  it  is  possible  for  me  to  see  you  day 
after  day,  to  talk  with  you  day  after  day,  to  be  alone 
with  you  da}^  after  day,  as  I  am,  to  hear  your  voice,  to 
touch  your  hand  —  and  to  be  satisfied  with  friendship?  " 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  "  Cecilia  asked  thoughtfully. 
"  I  have  never  known  any  one  as  well  as  I  know  you. 
I  never  liked  any  one  else  well  enough,"  she  added  after 
an  instant. 

A  very  faint  colour  rose  in  her  cheeks,  for  she  was 
afraid  that  she  had  been  too  forward. 

"  Yes.  I  am  sure  of  that,"  he  said.  "  But  you  never 
feel  that  mere  liking  is  turning  into  something  stronger, 
and  that  friendship  is  changing  into  love.  You  never 
will!" 

She  said  nothing,  but  locked  at  him  steadily  while  he 
looked  away  from  her,  absorbed  in  his  own  thought  and 
expecting  no  answer.  When  at  last  he  felt  her  eyes  on 
him,  he  turned  quickly  with  a  start  of  surprise,  catching 
his  breath,  and  speaking  incoherently. 

"You  do  not  mean  to  tell  me — you  are  not  —  " 

Again  her  lips  parted  and  she  smiled  at  his  wonder. 


A   STORY   OF  MODERN  ROME  215 

"Why  not?  "  she  asked,  at  last. 

"You  love  me?  You?"  He  could  not  believe  his 
ears. 

"Why  not?"  she  asked  again,  but  so  low  that  he 
could  hardly  hear  the  words. 

He  turned  half  round,  as  he  sat,  and  covered  her 
crossed  hands  with  his,  and  for  a  while  neither  spoke. 
He  was  supremely  happy ;  she  was  convinced  that  she 
ought  to  be,  and  that  she  therefore  believed  that  she 
was,  and  that  her  happiness  was  consequently  real. 

But  when  she  heard  his  voice,  she  knew,  in  spite  of 
all,  that  she  did  not  feel  what  he  felt,  even  in  the 
smallest  degree,  and  there  was  a  doubt  which  she  had 
not  anticipated,  and  which  she  at  once  faced  in  her  heart 
with  every  argument  she  could  use.  She  must  have 
done  right,  it  was  absolutely  necessary  that  what  she 
had  done  should  be  right,  now  that  it  was  too  late  to 
undo  it.  The  mere  suggestion  that  it  might  turn  out 
to  be  a  mistake  was  awful.  It  would  all  be  her  fault  if 
she  had  deceived  him,  though  ever  so  unwittingly. 

His  hands  shook  a  little  as  they  lay  on  hers.  Then 
they  took  one  of  hers  and  held  it,  drawing  it  slowly 
away  from  the  other. 

"  Do  you  really  love  me  ?  "  Guido  asked,  still  wonder- 
ing, and  not  quite  convinced. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  faintly,  and  not  trying  to 
withdraw  her  hand. 

She  had  been  really  happy  before  she  had  first 
answered  him.  A  minute  had  not  passed,  and  her 
martyrdom  had  begun,  the  martyrdom  by  the  doubt 


216  CECILIA 

which  made  that  one  "  yes  "  possibly  a  lie.  Guide  raised 
her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  she  felt  that  they  were  cold. 
Then  he  began  to  speak,  and  she  heard  his  voice  far  off 
and  as  if  it  came  to  her  through  a  dense  mist. 

''  I  have  loved  you  almost  since  we  first  met,"  he 
said,  "but  I  was  sure  from  the  beginning  that  you 
would  never  feel  anything  but  friendship  for  me." 

A  voice  that  was  neither  his  nor  hers,  cried  out  in 
her  heart : 

"  Nor  ever  can  ! " 

She  almost  believed  that  he  could  hear  the  words. 
She  would  have  given  all  she  had  to  have  the  strength 
to  speak  them,  to  disappoint  him  bravely,  to  tell  him 
that  she  had  meant  to  do  right,  but  had  done  wrong. 
But  she  could  not.  He  did  not  pause  as  he  spoke,  and 
his  soft,  deep  voice  poured  into  her  ear  unceasingly  the 
pent-up  thoughts  of  love  that  had  been  gathering  in 
his  heart  for  weeks.  She  knew  that  he  was  looking 
in  her  face  for  some  response,  and  now  and  then,  as 
her  head  lay  back  against  the  sofa  cushion,  she  turned 
her  eyes  to  his  and  smiled,  and  twice  she  felt  that  her 
fingers  pressed  his  hand  a  little. 

It  was  not  out  of  mere  weakness  that  she  did  not 
interrupt  him,  for  she  was  not  weak,  nor  cowardly. 
She  had  been  so  sure  that  she  loved  him,  until  he  had 
made  her  say  so,  that  even  now,,  whenever  she  could 
think  at  all,  she  went  back  to  her  reasoning,  and  could 
all  but  persuade  herself  again.  It  was  when  she  was 
obliged  to  speak  that  her  lips  almost  refused  the  word. 

For  she  was  very  fond  of  him.     It  would  have  been 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN  ROME  217 

pleasant  to  sit  there,  and  even  to  press  his  hand  affec- 
tionately, and  to  listen  to  his  words,  if  only  they  had 
been  words  of  friendship  and  not  of  love,  and  spoken  in 
another  tone  —  in  his  voice  of  every  day.  But  she  had 
waked  in  him  something  she  could  not  understand,  and 
to  which  nothing  in  herself  responded,  nothing  thrilled, 
nothing  consented;  and  the  inner  voice  in  her  heart 
cried  out  perpetually,  warning  her  against  something 
unknown. 

He  was  eloquent  now,  and  spoke  without  doubt  or 
fear,  as  men  do  when  they  have  been  told  at  last  that 
they  are  loved ;  and  her  occasional  glance  and  the  press- 
ure of  her  hand  were  all  he  wanted  in  return.  He 
said  everything  for  her,  which  he  wished  to  hear  her 
say,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  spoke  the  words  by 
his  lips.  They  would  be  happy  together  always,  happy 
beyond  volumes  of  words  to  say,  beyond  thought  to 
think,  beyond  imagination  to  imagine.  Quick  plans 
for  the  future,  near  and  far,  flashed  into  words  that 
were  pictures,  and  the  pictures  showed  him  a  visible 
earthly  paradise,  in  which  they  two  should  live  always, 
in  which  he  should  always  be  speaking  as  he  was  speak- 
ing now,  and  she  listening,  as  she  now  listened. 

He  forgot  the  time,  and  forgot  to  glance  at  the  open 
door  of  the  boudoir,  but  at  last  Cecilia  started,  and  drew 
back  her  hand  from  his,  and  blushed  as  she  raised  her 
head  from  the  back  of  the  sofa.  Her  mother  was  stand- 
ing in  the  doorway  watching,  and  hearing,  an  expression 
of  rapt  delight  on  her  face,  not  daring  to  move  forwards 
or  backwards,   lest   she    should   interrupt   the    scene. 


218  CECILIA 

Cecilia  started,  and  Guido,  following  the  direction 
of  her  eyes,  saw  the  Countess,  and  felt  that  small  touch 
of  disappointment  which  a  man  feels  when  the  woman 
he  is  addressing  in  passionate  language  is  less  absent- 
minded  than  he  is.  He  rose  to  his  feet  instantly,  and 
went  forwards,  as  the  Countess  came  towards  him. 

"  My  dear  lady,"  he  said,  "  Cecilia  has  consented  to 
be  my  wife." 

Cecilia  did  not  afterwards  remember  precisely  what 
happened  next,  for  the  room  swam  with  her  as  she 
left  her  seat,  and  she  steadied  herself  against  a  chair, 
and  saw  nothing  for  a  moment;  but  presently  she 
found  herself  in  her  mother's  arms,  which  pressed  her 
very  hard,  and  her  mother  was  kissing  her  again  and 
again,  and  was  saying  incoherent  things,  and  was  on 
the  point  of  crying.  Guido  stood  a  few  steps  away, 
apparently  seeing  nothing,  but  looking  the  picture 
of  happiness,  and  very  busy  with  his  cigarette  case,  of 
which  he  seemed  to  think  the  fastening  must  be  out  of 
order,  for  he  opened  it  and  shut  it  again  several  times 
and  tried  it  in  every  way. 

Then  Cecilia  was  quite  aware  of  outward  things 
again,  and  she  kissed  her  mother  once  or  twice. 

"  Let  me  go,  mother  dear,"  she  whispered  desper- 
ately.    "  I  want  to  be  alone  —  do  let  me  go  ! " 

She  slipped  away,  pale  and  trembling,  and  had  dis- 
appeared almost  before  Guido  was  aware  that  she  was 
going  towards  the  door.  She  heard  her  mother's  voice 
just  as  she  reached  the  threshold. 

"We  will  announce  it  this  evening,"  the  Countess 
said  to  Guido. 


A   STOSY   OF   MODERN   HOME  219 

Cecilia  sped  through  the  long  suite  of  rooms  that  led 
to  her  own.  She  met  no  one,  not  even  Petersen,  for  the 
servants  were  all  at  dinner.  She  locked  the  door,  stood 
still  a  moment,  and  then  went  to  the  tall  glass  between 
the  windows,  and  looked  at  herself  as  if  trying  to  read 
the  truth  in  the  reflection  of  her  eyes.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  her  beauty  was  suddenly  gone  from  her, 
and  that  she  was  utterly  changed.  She  saw  a  pale, 
drawn  face,  eyes  that  looked  weak  and  frightened,  lips 
that  trembled,  a  figure  that  had  lost  all  its  elasticity 
and  half  its  grace. 

She  did  not  throw  herself  upon  her  bed  and  burst 
into  tears.  Old  Fortiguerra  had  taught  her  that  it  was 
not  really  more  natural  for  a  woman  to  cry  than  it  is 
for  a  man  ;  and  she  had  overcome  even  the  very  slight 
tendency  she  had  ever  had  towards  such  outward  weak- 
ness. But  like  other  people  who  train  themselves  to 
keep  down  emotion,  she  suffered  much  more  than  if 
she  had  given  way  to  what  she  felt.  She  turned  from 
the  reflection  of  herself  with  a  sort  of  dumb  horror,  and 
sat  down  in  the  place  where  she  had  come  to  her  great 
decision  less  than  two  hours  ago. 

The  room  looked  very  differently  now;  the  air  was 
not  the  same,  the  June  sunshine  was  still  beating  on 
the  blinds,  but  it  was  cruel  now,  and  pitiless,  as  all 
light  is  that  shines  on  grief. 

She  tried  to  collect  her  thoughts,  and  asked  herself 
whether  it  was  a  crime  that  she  had  committed  against 
her  will,  and  many  other  such  questions  that  had  no 
answer.  Little  by  little  reason  began  to  assert  itself 
again,  as  emotion  subsided. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

The  news  of  Cecilia  Palladio's  engagement  to  Guido 
d'Este  surprised  no  one,  and  was  generally  received  with 
that  satisfaction  which  society  feels  when  those  things 
happen  which  are  appropriate  in  themselves  and  have 
been  long  expected.  A  few  mothers  of  marriageable 
sons  were  disappointed,  but  no  mothers  of  marriageable 
daughters,  because  Guido  had  no  fortune  and  was  so 
much  liked  as  to  have  been  looked  upon  rather  as  a 
danger  than  a  prize. 

Though  it  was  late  in  the  season,  and  she  was  about 
to  leave  Rome,  the  Princess  Anatolic  gave  a  dinner 
party  in  honour  of  the  betrothed  pair,  and  by  way  of 
producing  an  impression  on  Cecilia  and  her  mother, 
invited  all  the  most  imposing  people  who  happened  to 
be  in  Rome  at  that  time  ;  and  they  were  chiefly  related 
to  her  in  some  way  or  other,  as  all  semi-royal  personages, 
and  German  dukes  and  grand-dukes  and  mediatised 
princes,  and  princes  of  the  Holy  Empire,  seemed  to  be. 
Now  all  these  great  people  seemed  to  know  Cecilia's 
future  husband  intimately  and  liked  him,  and  called 
him  "  Guido  "  ;  and  he  called  some  of  them  by  their  first 
names,  and  was  evidently  not  the  least  in  awe  of  any  of 
them.  They  were  his  relations,  as  the  Princess  was,  and 
they  acknowledged  him ;  and  they  were  inclined  to  be 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN  ROME  221 

affectionate  relatives,  because  he  had  never  asked  any  of 
them  for  anything,  and  differed  from  most  of  them  in 
never  having  done  anything  too  scandalous  to  be  men- 
tioned. They  were  his  family,  for  his  mother  had  been 
an  only  child ;  and  Princess  Anatolic,  who  was  distinctly 
a  snob  in  soul,  in  spite  of  her  royal  blood,  took  care  that 
the  good  Countess  Fortiguerra  should  know  exactly  how 
matters  stood,  and  that  her  daughter  ought  to  be  thank- 
ful that  she  was  to  marry  among  the  exalted  ones  of  the 
earth  —  at  any  price. 

Now,  when  she  had  been  an  ambassadress,  the  Count- 
ess had  met  two  or  three  of  those  people,  and  had  been 
accustomed  to  look  upon  them  as  personages  whom  the 
Embassy  entertained  in  state,  one  at  a  time,  when  they 
condescended  to  accept  an  invitation,  but  who  lived  in  a 
region  of  their  own,  which  was  often,  and  perhaps  for- 
tunately so,  beyond  the  experience  of  ordinary  society. 
She  was  therefore  really  pleased  and  flattered  to  find 
herself  in  their  intimacy  and  to  hear  what  they  had  to 
say  when  they  talked  without  restraint.  Her  position 
was  certainly  very  good  already,  but  there  was  no  deny- 
ing that  her  daughter's  marriage  would  make  it  a  privi- 
leged one. 

In  the  first  place,  Guido  and  Cecilia  were  clearly  ex- 
pected to  visit  some  of  his  relations  during  their  wedding 
trip  and  afterwards,  and  at  some  future  time  the  Count- 
ess would  go  with  them  and  see  wonderful  castles  and 
palaces  she  had  heard  of  from  her  childhood.  That 
would  be  delightful,  she  thought,  and  the  excellent 
Baron  Goldbirn  of  Vienna  would  die  of  envy.     Not  that 


222  CECILIA 

she  wished  him  to  die  of  envy,  nor  of  anything  else  ; 
she  merely  thought  of  his  feelings. 

Then  —  and  perhaps  that  was  what  gave  her  the  most 
real  satisfaction  —  Cecilia  was  to  take  the  place  for 
which  her  beauty  and  her  talents  had  destined  her,  but 
which  her  birth  had  not  given  her.  The  mother's  heart 
was  filled  with  affectionate  pride  when  she  realised  that 
the  marvel  she  had  brought  into  the  world,  the  most  won- 
derful girl  that  ever  lived,  her  only  child,  was  to  be  the 
mother  of  kings'  and  queens'  second  cousins.  It  was 
quite  indifferent  that  she  should  be  called  plain  Signora 
d'Este,  and  not  princess,  or  duchess,  or  marchioness. 
The  Countess  did  not  care  a  straw  for  titles,  for  she  had 
lived  in  a  world  where  they  are  as  plentiful  as  figs  in 
August ;  but  to  be  the  mother  of  a  king's  second  cousin 
was  something  worth  living  for,  and  she  herself  would 
be  the  mother-in-law  of  an  ex-King's  son,  which  would 
have  made  her  the  some  thin  g-in-law  of  the  ex-King  him- 
self, if  he  had  been  alive.  Yet  she  cared  very  little  for 
herself  in  comparison  with  Cecilia.  She  was  only  a 
vicarious  snob,  after  all,  and  a  very  motherly  and  loving 
one,  with  harmless  faults  and  weaknesses  which  every 
one  forgave. 

The  Princess  Anatolic  saw  that  the  impression  was 
made,  and  was  satisfied  for  the  present.  She  meant  to 
have  a  little  serious  conversation  with  the  Countess  before 
they  parted  for  the  summer,  and  before  the  first  impres- 
sion had  worn  off,  but  it  would  have  been  a  great  mis- 
take to  talk  business  on  such  an  occasion  as  the  present. 
The  fish  was  netted,  that  was  the  main  thing ;  the  next 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  223 

was  to  hasten  the  marriage  as  much  as  possible,  for  the 
Princess  saw  at  once  that  Cecilia  was  not  really  in  love 
with  Guido,  and  as  the  fortune  was  hers,  the  girl  had 
the  power  to  draw  back  at  the  last  moment ;  that  is  to 
say,  that  all  the  mothers  of  marriageable  sons  would 
declare  that  she  was  quite  right  in  doing  what  Italian 
society  never  quite  pardons  in  ordinary  cases.  An 
Italian  girl  who  has  broken  off  an  engagement  after 
it  is  announced  does  not  easily  find  a  husband  at  any 
price. 

Cecilia  noticed  that  Monsieur  Leroy  was  not  present 
at  the  dinner,  and  as  she  sat  next  to  Guido  she  asked 
him  the  reason  in  an  undertone. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  answered.  "He  is  probably 
dining  out.  My  aunt's  relations  do  not  like  him  much, 
I  believe." 

The  Countess  was  affectionately  intent  on  everything 
her  daughter  said  and  did,  and  was  possessed  of  very 
good  hearing ;  she  caught  the  exchange  of  question  and 
answer,  and  it  occurred  to  her  that  an  absent  person 
might  always  be  made  a  subject  of  conversation.  She 
was  not  far  from  the  Princess  at  table. 

"  By-the-bye,"  she  asked,  agreeably,  "  where  is  Mon- 
sieur Leroy?" 

Every  one  heard  her  speak,  and  to  her  amazement  and 
confusion  her  words  produced  one  of  those  appalling 
silences  which  are  remembered  through  life  by  those 
who  have  accidentally  caused  them.  Cecilia  looked  at 
Guido,  and  he  was  gravely  occupied  in  digging  the 
little  bits  of  truffle  out  of  some  pS.t^  de  foie  gras  on  his 


224  CECILIA 

plate,  for  he  did  not  like  truffles.  Not  a  muscle  of  his 
face  moved. 

"  I  suppose  he  is  at  home,"  the  Princess  answered 
after  a  few  seconds,  in  her  most  disagreeable  and 
metallic  tone. 

As  Monsieur  Leroy  had  told  Cecilia  that  he  lived 
in  the  house,  she  opened  her  eyes.  Nobody  spoke  for 
several  moments,  and  the  Countess  got  very  red,  and 
fanned  herself.  A  stout  old  gentleman  of  an  apo- 
plectic complexion  and  a  merry  turn  of  mind  struggled 
a  moment  with  an  evident  desire  to  laugh,  then  grasped 
his  glass  desperately,  tried  to  drink,  choked  himself, 
and  coughed  and  sputtered,  just  as  if  he  had  not  been 
a  member  of  an  imperial  family,  but  just  a  common 
mortal. 

"  You  are  a  good  shot,  Guido,"  said  a  man  who  was 
very  much  like  him,  but  was  older  and  had  iron-grey 
hair,  "  you  must  be  sure  to  come  to  us  for  the  opening 
of  the  season." 

"I  should  like  to,"  Guido  answered,  "but  it  is  al- 
ways a  state  function  at  your  place." 

"  The  Emperor  is  not  coming  this  year,"  explained 
the  first  speaker. 

"Why  not?"  asked  the  Princess  Anatolie.  "I 
thought  he  always  did." 

The  man  with  the  iron-grey  hair  proceeded  to  ex- 
plain why  the  Emperor  was  not  coming,  and  the 
conversation  began  again,  much  to  the  relief  of  every 
one.  The  Countess  listened  attentively,  for  she  was 
not  quite  sure  which  Emperor  they  meant. 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN  HOME  225 

"  Please  ask  your  mother  not  to  talk  about  Mon- 
sieur Leroy,"  Guido  said,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

Cecilia  thought  that  the  advice  would  scarcely  be 
needed  after  what  had  just  happened,  but  she  promised 
to  convey  it,  and  begged  Guido  to  tell  her  the  reason 
for  what  he  said  when  he  should  have  a  chance. 

"I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  cannot,"  he  answered, 
and  at  once  began  to  talk  about  an  indifferent  subject. 

Cecilia  answered  him  rather  indolently,  but  not 
absently.  She  was  at  least  glad  that  he  did  not 
speak  of  their  future  plans,  where  any  one  might  hear 
what  he  said. 

She  was  growing  used  to  the  idea  that  she  had 
promised  to  marry  him,  and  that  everybody  expected 
the  wedding  to  take  place  in  a  few  weeks,  though 
it  looked  utterly  impossible  to  her. 

It  was  as  if  she  had  exchanged  characters  with 
him.  He  had  become  hopeful,  enthusiastic,  in  love 
with  life,  actively  exerting  himself  in  every  way. 
In  a  few  days  she  had  grown  indolent  and  vacil- 
lating, and  was  willing  to  let  every  question  de- 
cide itself  rather  than  to  force  her  decision  upon 
circumstances.  She  felt  that  she  was  not  what  she 
had  believed  herself  to  be,  and  that  it  therefore  mat>- 
tered  little  what  became  of  her.  If  she  married  Guido 
she  should  not  live  long,  but  it  would  be  the  same 
if  she  married  any  one  else,  since  there  was  no  one 
whom  she  liked  half  as  much. 

On  the  day  after  the  engagement  was  announced 
Lamberti    came,  with  Guido,  to  offer  his    congratula- 


226  CECILIA 

tions.  Cecilia  saw  that  he  was  thin  and  looked  as-  if 
he  were  living  under  a  strain  of  some  sort,  but  she 
did  not  think  that  his  manner  changed  in  the  least  when 
he  spoke  to  her.  His  words  were  what  she  might  have 
expected,  few,  concise,  and  well  chosen,  but  his  face 
was  expressionless,  and  his  eyes  were  dull  and  impene- 
trable. He  stayed  twenty  minutes,  talking  most  of  the 
time  with  her  mother,  and  then  took  his  leave.  As 
soon  as  he  had  turned  to  go,  Cecilia  unconsciously 
watched  him.  He  went  out  and  shut  the  door  very 
softly  after  him,  and  she  started  and  caught  her  breath. 
It  was  only  the  shutting  of  a  door,  of  course,  and  the 
door  was  like  any  other  door,  and  made  the  same  noise 
when  one  shut  it  —  the  click  of  a  well-made  lock  when 
the  spring  pushes  the  bevelled  latch-bolt  into  the  socket. 
But  it  was  exactly  the  sound  she  thought  she  heard 
each  time  her  dream  ended. 

The  impression  had  passed  in  a  flash,  and  no  one  had 
noticed  her  nervous  movement.  Since  then,  she  had 
not  met  Lamberti,  for  after  the  engagement  was  made 
known  she  went  out  less,  and  Guido  spent  much  more 
of  his  time  at  the  Palazzo  Massimo.  Many  people  were 
leaving  Rome,  too,  and  those  who  remained  were  no 
longer  inclined  to  congregate  together,  but  stayed  at 
home  in  the  evening  and  only  went  out  in  the  daytime 
when  it  was  cool.  Some  had  boys  who  had  to  pass  their 
public  examinations  before  the  family  could  go  into  the 
country.  Others  were  senators  of  the  Kingdom,  obliged 
to  stay  in  town  till  the  end  of  the  session ;  some  were 
connected  with  the  ministry  and  had  work  to  do ;  and 


A   STOEY  OF   MODEBN   ROME  227 

some  stayed  because  they  liked  it,  for  though  the  weather 
was  warm  it  was  not  yet  what  could  be  called  hot. 

The  Countess  wished  the  wedding  to  take  place  in 
July,  and  Guido  agreed  to  anything  that  could  hasten  it. 
Cecilia  said  nothing,  for  she  could  not  believe  that  she 
was  really  to  be  married.  Something  must  happen  to 
prevent  it,  even  at  the  last  minute,  something  natural 
but  unexpected,  something,  above  all,  by  which  she 
should  be  spared  the  humiliation  of  explaining  to  Guido 
what  she  felt,  and  why  she  had  honestly  believed  that 
she  loved  him. 

And  after  all,  if  she  were  obliged  to  marry  him,  she 
supposed  that  she  would  never  be  more  unhappy  than 
she  was  already.  It  was  her  fate,  that  was  all  that 
could  be  said,  and  she  must  bear  it,  and  perhaps  it 
would  not  be  so  hard  as  it  seemed.  A  character 
weaker  than  hers  might  perhaps  have  turned  against 
Guido;  she  might  have  found  her  friendly  affection 
suddenly  changed  into  a  capricious  dislike  that  would 
soon  lead  to  positive  hatred.  But  there  was  no  fear 
of  that.  She  only  wished  that  he  would  not  talk  per- 
petually about  the  future,  with  so  much  absolute  con- 
fidence, when  it  seemed  to  her  so  terribly  problematic. 

Such  conversations  were  made  all  the  more  difficult 
to  sustain  by  the  fact  that  if  they  were  married,  she,  as 
the  possessor  of  the  fortune,  would  be  obliged  to  decide 
many  questions  with  regard  to  their  manner  of  life. 

"  For  my  part,"  Guido  said,  "  I  do  not  care  where  we 
live,  so  long  as  you  like  the  place,  but  you  will  natu- 
rally wish  to  be  near  your  mother." 


228  CECILIA 

"  Oh  yes  I "  cried  Cecilia,  with  more  conviction  than 
she  had  shown  about  anything  of  late.  "  I  could  not 
bear  to  be  separated  from  her ! " 

Lamberti  had  once  observed  to  Guido  that  she  was 
an  indulgent  daughter ;  and  Guido  had  smiled  and 
reminded  his  friend  of  the  younger  Dumas,  who  once 
said  that  his  father  always  seemed  to  him  a  favourite 
child  that  had  been  born  to  him  before  he  came  into  the 
world.  Cecilia  was  certainly  fond  of  her  mother,  but 
it  had  never  occurred  to  Guido  that  she  could  not  live 
without  her.  He  was  in  a  state  of  mind,  however,  in 
which  a  man  in  love  accepts  everything  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  he  merely  answered  that  in  that  case  they 
would  naturally  live  in  Rome. 

"  We  could  just  live  here,  for  the  present,"  she  said. 
"There  is  the  Palazzo  Massimo.  I  am  sure  it  is  big 
enough.     Should  you  dislike  it?" 

She  was  thinking  that  if  she  could  keep  her  own  room, 
and  have  Petersen  with  her,  and  her  mother,  the  change 
would  not  be  so  great  after  all.  Guido  said  nothing, 
and  his  expression  was  a  blank. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  Cecilia  insisted,  and  all  sorts  of  practical 
reasons  suggested  themselves  at  once.  "  It  is  a  very 
comfortable  house,  though  it  is  a  little  ghostly  at  night. 
There  are  dreadful  stories  about  it,  you  know.  But 
what  does  that  matter?  It  is  big,  and  in  a  good  part 
of  the  city,  and  we  have  just  furnished  it ;  so  of  what 
use  in  the  world  is  it  to  go  and  do  the  same  thing  over 
again,  in  the  next  street  ?  " 

''  That  is  very  sensible,"  Guido  was  obliged  to  admit. 


A   STORY  OF   MODERN  ROME  229 

"But  you  do  not  like  the  idea,  I  am  sure,"  Cecilia 
said,  in  a  tone  of  disappointment. 

"  I  had  not  meant  that  we  should  live  in  the  same 
house  with  your  mother,"  Guido  said,  with  a  smile. 
"  Of  course,  she  is  a  very  charming  woman,  and  I  like 
her  very  much,  but  I  think  that  when  people  marry  they 
had  much  better  go  and  live  by  themselves." 

"  Nobody  ever  used  to,"  objected  Cecilia.  "  It  is  only 
of  late  years  that  they  do  it  in  Rome.  Oh,  I  see  I "  she 
cried  suddenly.  "  How  dull  of  me !  Yes.  I  under- 
stand.    It  is  quite  natural." 

"What?"  asked  Guido  with  some  curiosity. 

"  You  would  feel  that  you  had  simply  come  to  live  in 
our  house,  because  you  have  no  house  of  your  own  for 
us  to  live  in.     I  ought  to  have  thought  of  that." 

She  seemed  distressed,  fancying  that  she  had  hurt 
him,  but  he  had  no  false  pride. 

"Every  one  knows  my  position,"  he  answered. 
"  Every  one  knows  that  if  we  live  in  a  palace,  in  the 
way  you  are  used  to  live,  it  will  be  with  your  money." 

There  was  a  little  pause,  for  Cecilia  did  not  know 
what  to  say.  Guido  continued,  following  his  own 
thoughts : 

"  If  I  did  not  love  you  as  much  as  I  do,  I  could  not 
possibly  live  on  your  fortune,"  he  said.  "  I  used  to  say 
that  nothing  could  ever  make  me  marry  an  heiress,  and 
I  meant  it.  One  generally  ends  by  doing  what  one  says 
one  will  never  do.  A  cousin  of  mine  detested  Germans 
and  had  the  most  extraordinary  aversion  for  people  who 
had  any  physical  defect.     She  married  a  German  who 


230  CECILIA 

had  lost  the  use  of  one  leg  by  a  wound  in  battle,  and 
was  extremely  lame." 

"  Did  she  love  him  ?  "  asked  Cecilia. 

"  Devotedly,  to  his  dying  day.  They  were  the  most 
perfectly  loving  couple  I  ever  knew." 

"  Would  you  rather  I  were  lame  than  rich  ?  "  Cecilia 
asked,  with  a  little  laugh. 

Guido  laughed  too. 

"  That  is  one  of  those  questions  that  have  no  answers. 
How  could  I  wish  anything  so  perfect  as  you  are  to 
have  any  defect?  But  I  will  tell  you  a  story.  An 
Englishman  was  very  much  in  love  with  a  lady  who 
was  lame,  and  she  loved  him  but  would  not  marry  him. 
She  said  that  he  should  not  be  tied  to  a  cripple  all  his 
life.  He  was  one  of  those  magnificent  Englishmen 
you  see  sometimes,  bigger  and  better  looking  than  other 
men.  When  he  saw  that  she  was  in  earnest  he  went 
away  and  scoured  Europe  till  he  found  what  he  wanted 
—  a  starving  young  surgeon  who  was  willing  to  cut  off 
one  of .  his  legs  for  a  large  sum  of  money.  That  was 
before  the  days  of  chloroform.  When  the  Englishman 
had  recovered,  he  went  home  with  his  wooden  leg,  and 
asked  the  lady  if  she  would  marry  him,  then.  She  did, 
and  they  were  happy." 

"  Is  that  true  ?  "  Cecilia  asked. 

"I  have  always  believed  it.  That  was  the  real 
thing." 

"  Yes.     That  was  the  real  thing." 

Cecilia's  voice  trembled  a  very  little,  and  her  eyes 
glistened. 


A   STORY   OF  MODBEN  ROME  231 

"  The  truth  is,"  said  Guido,  "  that  it  is  easier  to  have 
one's  leg  cut  off  than  to  make  a  fortune." 

He  was  amused  at  his  thought,  but  Cecilia  was  won- 
dering what  she  would  be  willing  to  suffer,  and  able  to 
bear,  if  any  suffering  could  buy  her  freedom.  At  the 
same  time,  she  knew  that  she  would  do  a  great  deal  to 
help  him  if  he  were  in  need  or  distress.  She  wondered, 
too,  whether  there  could  be  any  fixed  relation  between 
a  sacrifice  made  for  love  and  one  made  for  friendship's 
sake. 

"There  must  never  be  any  question  of  money  be- 
tween us,"  she  said,  after  a  pause.  "  What  is  mine 
must  be  ours,  and  what  is  ours  must  be  as  much  yours 
as  mine." 

"No,"  Guido  answered  gently.  "That  is  not  pos- 
sible. I  have  quite  enough  for  anything  I  shall  ever 
need,  but  you  must  live  in  the  way  you  like,  and  where 
you  like,  with  your  own  fortune." 

"  And  you  will  be  a  sort  of  perpetual  guest  in  my 
house ! " 

For  the  first  time  there  was  a  little  bitterness  in  her 
laugh,  and  he  looked  at  her  quickly,  for  after  the  way 
she  had  spoken  he  had  not  thought  that  what  he  had 
said  could  have  offended  her.  Of  the  two,  he  fancied 
that  his  own  position  was  the  harder  to  accept,  the 
position  of  the  "  perpetual  guest "  in  his  wife's  palace, 
just  able  to  pay  for  his  gloves,  his  cigarettes,  and  his 
small  luxuries.  He  did  not  quite  understand  why  she 
was  hurt,  as  she  seemed  to  be. 

On  her  part  she  felt  as  if  she  had  done  all  she  could, 


282  CECILIA 

and  was  angry  with  herself,  and  not  with  him,  because 
all  her  fortune  was  not  worth  a  tenth  of  what  he  was 
giving  her,  nor  a  hundredth  part.  For  an  instant  she 
was  on  the  point  of  speaking  out  frankly,  to  tell  him 
that  she  had  made  a  great  mistake.  Then  she  thought 
of  what  he  would  suffer,  and  once  more  she  resolved 
to  think  it  all  over  before  finally  deciding. 

So  nothing  was  decided.  For  when  she  was  alone, 
all  the  old  reasons  came  and  arrayed  themselves  before 
her,  with  their  hopeless  little  faces,  like  poor  children 
standing  in  a  row  to  be  inspected,  and  trying  to  look 
their  best  though  their  clothes  were  ragged  and  their 
little  shoes  were  out  at  the  toes. 

But  they  were  the  only  reasons  she  had,  and  she 
coaxed  them  into  a  sort  of  unreal  activity  till  they 
brought  her  back  to  the  listless  state  in  which  she  had 
lived  of  late,  and  in  which  it  did  not  matter  what  be- 
came of  her,  since  she  must  marry  Guido  in  the  end. 

Her  mother  paid  no  attention  to  her  moods.  Cecilia 
had  always  been  subject  to  moods,  she  said  to  herself, 
and  it  was  not  at  all  strange  that  she  should  not  be- 
have like  other  girls.  Guido  seemed  satisfied,  and  that 
was  the  main  thing,  after  all.  He  was  not,  but  he  was 
careful  not  to  say  so. 

The  preparations  for  the  wedding  went  on,  and  the 
Countess  made  up  her  mind  that  it  should  take  place 
at  the  end  of  July.  It  would  be  so  much  more  con- 
venient to  get  it  over  at  once,  and  the  sooner  Cecilia 
returned  from  her  honeymoon,  the  sooner  her  mother 
could  see  her  again.      The   good  lady  knew  that  she 


A   STORY  OF   MODERK  ROME  233 

should  be  very  unhappy  when  she  was  separated  from 
the  child  she  had  idolised  all  her  life ;  but  she  had 
always  looked  upon  marriage  as  an  absolute  necessity, 
and  after  being  married  twice  herself,  she  was. inclined 
to  consider  it  as  an  absolute  good.  She  would  no  more 
have  thought  of  delaying  the  wedding  from  selfish  con- 
siderations than  she  would  have  thought  of  cutting  off 
Cecilia's  beautiful  hair  in  order  to  have  it  made  up  into 
a  false  braid  and  wear  it  herself.  So  she  busied  her- 
self with  the  dressmakers,  and  only  regretted  that 
both  Cecilia  and  Guido  flatly  refused  to  go  to  Paris. 
It  did  not  matter  quite  so  much,  because  only  three 
months  had  elapsed  since  the  last  interview  with 
Doucet,  and  all  the  new  summer  things  had  come; 
and  after  all  one  could  write,  and  some  things  were 
very  good  in  Rome,  as  for  instance  all  the  fine  needle- 
work done  by  the  nuns.  It  would  have  been  easier  if 
Cecilia  had  shown  some  little  interest  in  her  wedding 
outfit. 

The  girl  tried  hard  to  care  about  what  was  being 
made  for  her,  and  was  patient  in  having  gowns  tried 
on,  and  in  listening  to  her  mother's  advice.  The  days 
passed  slowly  and  it  grew  hotter. 

After  she  had  become  engaged  to  Guido,  she  had 
broken  with  her  dream  life  by  an  effort  which  had 
cost  her  more  than  she  cared  to  remember. 

She  had  felt  that  it  was  not  the  part  of  a  faithful 
woman  to  go  on  loving  an  imaginary  man  in  her 
dreams,  when  she  was  the  promised  wife  of  another, 
even  though  she  loved  that  other  less  or  not  at  all. 


234  CECILIA 

It  was  a  maidenly  and  an  honest  conviction,  but  at 
the  root  of  it  lay  also  an  unacknowledged  fear  which 
made  it  even  stronger.  The  man  in  the  dream  might 
grow  more  and  more  like  Lamberti,  the  dream  itself 
might  change,  the  man  might  have  power  over  her, 
instead  of  submitting  to  her  will,  and  he  might  begin 
to  lead  her  whither  he  would.  The  mere  idea  was 
horrible.  It  was  better  to  break  off,  if  she  could,  and 
to  remember  the  exquisite  Vestal,  faithful  to  her  vows, 
living  her  life  of  saintly  purity  to  the  very  end,  in  a 
love  altogether  beyond  material  things.  To  let  that 
vision  be  marred,  to  suffer  that  life  to  be  polluted  by 
mortality,  to  see  the  Vestal  break  the  old  promises 
and  fall  to  the  level  of  an  ordinary  woman,  would  be 
to  lose  a  part  of  herself  and  all  that  portion  of  her 
own  existence  which  had  been  dearest  to  her.  That 
would  happen  if  the  man's  eyes  changed  ever  so  little 
from  what  they  were  in  the  dream  to  the  likeness  of 
those  living  ones  that  glittered  and  were  ruthless. 
For  the  dream  had  really  changed  on  the  very  night 
after  she  had  met  Lamberti;  the  loving  look  had 
been  followed  by  the  one  fierce  kiss  she  could  never 
forget,  and  though  afterwards  the  rest  of  the  dream 
had  all  come  back  and  had  gone  on  to  its  end  as 
before,  that  one  kiss  came  with  it  again  and  again, 
and  in  that  moment  the  eyes  were  Lamberti's  own. 
It  was  no  wonder  that  she  dared  not  look  into  them 
when  she  met  him. 

And  worse  still,  she  had  begun  to  long  for  it  in 
the  dream.     She  blushed  at  the  thought.     If  by  any 


A   STOBY   OF   MODERN  ROME  285 

unheard-of  outrage  Lamberti  should  ever  touch  her 
lips  with  his  in  real  life,  she  knew  that  she  would 
scream  and  struggle  and  escape,  unless  his  eyes  forced 
her  to  yield.  Then  she  should  die.  She  was  sure  of 
it.  But  she  would  kill  herself  rather  than  be  touched 
by  him. 

She  did  not  understand  exactly,  that  is  to  say, 
scientifically,  how  she  put  herself  into  the  dream 
state,  for  it  was  not  a  natural  sleep,  if  it  were  sleep 
at  all.  She  did  not  put  out  the  light  and  lay  her 
head  on  the  pillow  and  lose  consciousness,  as  Lamberti 
did,  and  then  at  once  see  the  vision.  In  real  sleep, 
she  rarely  dreamed  at  all,  and  never  of  what  she 
always  thought  of  as  her  other  life.  To  reach  that, 
she  had  to  use  her  will,  being  wide  awake,  with  her 
eyes  open,  concentrating  her  thoughts  at  first,  as  it 
seemed  to  her,  to  a  single  point,  and  then  abandoning 
that  point  altogether,  so  that  she  thought  of  nothing 
while  she  waited. 

It  was  in  her  power  not  to  begin  the  process,  in 
other  words  not  to  hypnotise  herself,  though  she  never 
thought  of  it  by  that  name ;  and  when  she  had  an- 
swered Guide's  question,  rightly  or  wrongly,  she  knew 
that  it  must  be  right  to  break  the  old  habit.  But 
she  did  not  know  what  she  had  resolved  to  forego  till 
the  temptation  came,  that  very  night,  after  she  had 
shut  the  door,  and  when  she  was  about  to  light  the 
candles,  by  force  of  habit.  She  checked  herself. 
There  was  the  high  chair  she  loved  to  sit  in,  with  the 
candles  behind  her,  waiting  for  her  in  the  same  placeo 


236  CECILIA 

If  she  sat  in  it,  the  light  would  cast  her  shadow  before 
her  and  the  vision  would  presently  rise  in  it. 

She  had  taken  the  lid  off  the  little  Wedgwood  match 
box  and  the  candles  were  before  her.  It  seemed  as  if 
some  physical  power  were  going  to  force  her  to  strike 
the  wax  match  in  spite  of  herself.  If  she  did,  five 
minutes  would  not  pass  before  she  should  see  the 
marble  court  of  the  Vestals'  house,  and  then  the  rest 
—  the  kiss,  and  then  the  rest.  She  stiffened  her  arm, 
as  if  to  resist  the  force  that  tried  to  move  it  against 
her  will,  and  she  held  her  breath  and  then  breathed 
hard  again.  She  felt  her  throat  growing  slowly  dry 
and  the  blood  rising  with  a  strange  pressure  to  the 
back  of  her  head.  If  she  let  her  hand  move  to  take 
the  match,  she  was  lost.  As  the  temptation  increased 
she  tried  to  say  a  prayer. 

Then,  she  did  not  know  how,  it  grew  less,  as  if  a  sort 
of  crisis  were  past,  and  she  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief 
as  her  arm  relaxed,  and  she  replaced  the  lid  on  the  box. 
She  turned  from  the  table  and  took  the  big  chair  away 
from  its  usual  place.  It  was  a  heavy  thing  for  a  woman 
to  carry,  but  she  did  not  notice  the  weight  till  she  had 
set  it  against  the  wall  at  the  further  end  of  the  room. 

She  slept  little  that  night,  but  she  slept  naturally, 
and  when  she  awoke  there  was  no  sound  of  the  door 
being  softly  closed.  But  she  missed  something,  and 
felt  a  dull,  inexplicable  want  all  the  next  day. 

A  habit  is  not  broken  by  a  single  interruption.  It  is 
hard  for  a  man  whose  nerves  are  accustomed  to  a  stimu- 
lant or  a  narcotic  to  go  without  it  for  one  day,  but  that 


A   STOBY  OF  MODERN  BOMB  237 

is  as  nothing  compared  with  giving  it  up  altogether. 
Specialists  can  decide  whether  there  is  any  resemblance 
between  the  condition  of  a  person  under  the  influence 
of  morphia  or  alcohol,  and  the  state  of  a  person  hypno- 
tised, whether  by  himself  or  by  another,  when  that  state 
is  regularly  accompanied  by  the  illusion  of  some  strong 
and  agreeable  emotion.  Probably  all  means  which  pro- 
duce an  unnatural  condition  of  the  nerves  at  more  or 
less  regular  hours  may  be  classed  together,  and  there  is 
not  much  difference  between  the  kind  of  craving  they 
produce  in  those  who  use  them.  Moreover  it  is  often 
said  that  it  is  harder  for  a  woman  to  break  a  habit  of 
that  sort,  than  for  a  man. 

Cecilia  was  young,  fairly  strong  and  very  elastic,  but 
she  suffered  intensely  when  night  came  and  she  had  to 
face  the  struggle.  Bodily  pain  would  have  been  a  relief 
then,  and  she  knew  it,  but  there  was  none  to  bear.  The 
chair  looked  at  her  from  its  distant  place  against  the 
wall,  and  seemed  to  draw  her  to  it,  till  she  had  it  taken 
away,  pretending  that  it  did  not  suit  the  room.  But 
when  it  was  gone,  she  knew  perfectly  well  that  it  really 
made  no  difference,  and  that  she  could  dream  in  any 
other  chair  as  easily. 

And  then  came  a  wild  desire  to  see  the  man's  face 
again,  and  to  be  sure  that  it  had  not  changed.  She  was 
certain  that  she  only  wished  to  see  it ;  she  would  have 
been  overwhelmed  with  shame,  all  alone  in  her  room, 
if  she  had  acknowledged  that  it  was  the  kiss  that  she 
craved  and  the  one  moment  of  indescribable  intoxication 
that  came  with  it. 


238  CECILIA 

Are  there  not  hundreds  of  men  who  earn  their  living 
by  risking  their  lives  every  night  in  feats  of  danger, 
and  who  miss  that  recurring  moment  when  they  cannot 
have  it  ?  They  will  never  admit  that  what  they  crave 
is  really  the  chance  of  a  painful  death,  yet  it  is  perfectly 
true. 

Cecilia  could  not  have  been  induced  to  think  that  she 
desired  no  longer  the  lovely  vision  of  a  perfect  life ; 
that  she  could  have  parted  with  that  easily  enough, 
though  with  much  calm  regret ;  and  that,  instead,  she 
had  a  nervous,  material,  most  earthly  longing  for  the 
single  moment  in  that  life  which  was  the  contrary  of 
perfect,  which  she  despised,  or  tried  to  despise,  and 
which  she  believed  she  feared. 

She  struggled  hard,  and  succeeded,  and  at  last  she 
could  go  to  bed  quietly,  without  even  glancing  at  the 
place  where  the  chair  had  stood,  or  at  the  candles  on 
the  table. 

Then,  when  it  all  seemed  over,  a  terrible  thing  hap- 
pened. She  dreamed  of  the  real  Lamberti  in  her  natural 
sleep,  in  a  dream  about  real  life. 


CHAPTER  XV 

Cecilia  knelt  in  the  church  of  Santa  Croce,  near 
one  of  the  ancient  pillars.  At  a  little  distance 
behind  her,  Petersen  sat  in  a  chair  reading  a  queer 
little  German  book  that  told  her  the  stories  of  the 
principal  Roman  churches  with  the  legends  of  the 
saints  to  which  they  are  dedicated.  A  thin,  smooth- 
shaven  lay  brother  in  black  and  white  frock  was 
slowly  sweeping  the  choir  behind  the  high  altar. 
There  was  no  one  else  in  the  church. 

Cecilia  was  kneeling  on  the  marble  floor,  resting 
her  folded  hands  upon  the  back  of  a  rough  chair, 
and  there  was  no  sound  in  the  dim  building,  but 
the  regular,  soft  brushing  of  the  monk's  broom. 
The  girl's  face  was  still  and  pale,  her  eyes  were 
half  closed,  and  her  lips  did  not  move ;  she  did  not 
hear  the  broom. 

That  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  tried  to  spend 
an  hour  in  meditation  in  a  church,  for  her  religion 
had  never  seemed  very  real  to  her.  It  was  com- 
pounded of  habit  and  the  natural  respect  of  a  girl 
for  what  her  mother  practises  and  has  taught  her  to 
practise,  and  it  had  continued  to  hold  a  place  in  her 
life  because  she  had  quietly  exempted  it  from  her 
own  criticism;  perhaps,  too,  because   her  reading  had 

239 


240  CECILIA 

not  really  tended  to  disturb  it,  since  by  nature  she 
was  strongly  inclined  to  believe  in  something  much 
higher  than  the  visible  world. 

The  Countess  Fortiguerra  believed  with  the  sim- 
plicity of  a  child.  Her  first  husband,  freethinker, 
Garibaldian,  Mazzinian,  had  at  first  tried  to  laugh 
her  out  of  all  belief,  and  had  said  that  he  would 
baptize  her  in  the  name  of  reason,  as  Garibaldi  is 
said  to  have  once  baptized  a  new-born  infant.  But 
to  his  surprise  his  jests  had  not  the  slightest  effect 
on  the  rather  foolish,  very  pretty,  perfectly  frank 
young  woman  with  whom  he  had  fallen  in  love  in 
his  older  years,  and  who,  in  all  other  matters,  thought 
him  a  great  man.  She  laughed  at  his  atheism  much 
more  good-naturedly  than  he  at  her  beliefs,  and  she 
went  to  church  regularly  in  spite  of  anything  he  could 
say ;  so  that  at  last  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said 
in  his  heart  that  all  women  were  half-witted  creatures, 
where  priests  were  concerned,  but  that  fortunately 
the  weakness  did  not  detract  from  their  charm.  On 
her  side,  she  prayed  for  .his  conversion  every  day, 
with  clock-like  regularity,  but  without  the  slightest 
result. 

Fortiguerra  had  been  a  man  of  remarkable  gifts, 
extremely  tolerant  of  other  people's  opinions.  He 
never  laughed  at  any  sort  of  belief,  though  his  wife 
never  succeeded  in  finding  out  what  he  really  thought 
about  spiritual  matters.  He  evidently  believed  in 
something,  so  she  did  not  pray  for  his  conversion,  but 
interceded  steadily  for  his   enlightenment.     Before  he 


A   STOKY  OF   MODERN  ROME  241 

died  he  made  no  objection  to  seeing  a  priest,  but  his 
wife  never  knew  whether  he  consented  because  it 
would  have  given  her  pain  if  he  had  refused,  or 
whether  he  really  desired  spiritual  comfort  in  his  last 
moments.  He  was  always  most  considerate  of  others 
and  especially  of  her;  but  he  was  very  reticent.  So 
she  mourned  him  and  prayed  that  everything  might 
be  well  with  both  her  departed  husbands,  though  she 
doubted  whether  they  were  in  the  same  place.  She 
supposed  that  Fortiguerra  had  sometimes  discussed 
religion  with  his  step-daughter,  but  he  always  seemed 
to  take  it  for  granted  that  the  latter  should  do  what 
her  mother  desired  of  her. 

It  could  hardly  be  expected  that  the  girl  should 
be  what  is  called  very  devout,  and  as  Petersen  turned 
over  the  pages  of  her  little  book  she  wondered  what 
had  happened  that  Cecilia  should  kneel  motionless  on 
the  marble  pavement  for  more  than  half  an  hour  in  a 
church  to  which  they  had  never  come  before,  and  on  a 
week-day  which  was  not  a  saint's  day  either. 

It  was  something  like  despair  that  had  brought 
her  to  Santa  Croce,  and  she  had  chosen  the  place 
because  she  could  think  of  no  other  in  which  she 
could  be  quite  sure  of  being  alone,  and  out  of  the 
way  of  all  acquaintances.  She  wanted  something 
which  her  books  could  not  give  her,  and  which 
she  could  not  find  in  herself;  she  wanted  peace  and 
good  advice,  and  she  felt  that  she  was  dealt  with 
unjustly. 

Indeed,  it  was  of  little  profit  that  she  should  have 


242  CECILIA 

forced  herself  to  give  up  what  was  dearest  to  her, 
unreal  though  it  might  be,  since  she  was  to  be  haunted 
by  Lamberti's  face  and  voice  whenever  she  fell  asleep. 
It  was  more  like  a  possession  of  the  evil  one  now  than 
anything  else.  She  would  have  used  his  own  words 
to  describe  it,  if  she  had  dared  to  speak  of  it  to  any 
one,  but  that  seemed  impossible.  She  had  thought  of 
going  to  some  confessor  who  did  not  know  her  by  sight, 
to  tell  him  the  whole  story,  but  her  common  sense 
assured  her  that  she  had  done  no  wrong.  It  was 
advice  she  needed,  and  perhaps  it  was  protection  too, 
but  it  was  certainly  not  forgiveness,  so  far  as  she  knew. 

Lamberti  pursued  her,  in  her  imagination,  and  she 
lived  in  terror  of  him.  If  she  had  been  already  married 
to  Guido,  she  would  have  told  her  husband  everything, 
and  he  would  have  helped  her.  By  a  revulsion  that 
was  not  unnatural,  it  began  to  seem  much  easier  to 
marry  him  now,  and  she  turned  to  him  in  her  thoughts, 
asking  him  to  shield  her  from  a  man  she  feared.  Guido 
loved  her,  and  she  was  at  least  a  devoted  friend  to  him ; 
there  was  no  one  but  him  to  help  her. 

As  she  knelt  by  the  pillar  she  went  over  the  past 
weeks  of  her  life  in  a  concentrated  self-examination  of 
which  she  would  never  have  believed  herself  capable. 

"  I  am  a  grown  woman,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  and 
I  have  a  right  to  think  what  grown  women  think.  I 
know  perfectly  well  which  thoughts  are  good  and  which 
are  bad,  just  as  I  know  right  from  wrong  in  other  ways. 
It  was  wrong  to  put  myself  into  that  dream  state,  be- 
cause I  wanted  him  to  come  to  me.     Yes,  I  confess 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  243 

it,  I  wanted  him  to  come  and  kiss  me  that  once,  in  the 
vision  every  night.  It  would  not  have  been  wrong  if  I 
had  not  said  that  I  would  marry  Guido,  but  that  made 
the  difference.  Therefore  I  gave  it  up.  I  will  not  do 
anything  wrong  with  my  eyes  open.  I  will  not.  I 
would  not,  if  I  did  not  believe  in  God,  because  the 
thing  would  be  wrong  just  the  same.  Religion  makes 
it  more  wrong,  that  is  all.  If  I  were  not  engaged  to 
Guido,  and  if  I  loved  the  other  instead,  then  I  should 
have  a  right  to  wish  and  dream  that  the  other  kissed 
me." 

She  thought  some  time  about  this  point,  and  there 
was  something  that  disturbed  her,  in  spite  of  her 
reasoning. 

"  It  would  have  been  unmaidenly,"  she  decided,  at 
last.  "  I  should  be  ashamed  to  tell  my  mother  that  I 
had  done  it.  But  it  would  not  have  been  wrong,  dis- 
tinctly not.  It  would  be  wrong  and  abominable  to 
think  of  two  men  in  that  way. 

"That  is  what  is  happening  now,  against  my  will. 
I  go  to  sleep  saying  my  prayers,  and  yet  he  comes  to 
me  in  my  dreams,  and  looks  at  me,  and  I  cannot  help 
letting  him  kiss  me,  and  it  is  only  afterwards  that  I  feel 
how  revolting  it  was.  And  in  the  daytime  I  am  en- 
gaged to  Guido,  and  I  cannot  help  knowing  that  when 
we  are  married  he  will  want  to  kiss  me  like  that.  It 
was  different  before,  since  I  was  able  to  give  up  seeing 
the  marble  court  and  being  the  Vestal,  and  did  give  it 
up.  This  is  another  thing,  and  it  is  bad,  but  it  is  not 
a  wrong  thing  I  am  doing.     Therefore  it  is  something 


244  CECILIA 

outside  of  my  soul  that  is  trying  to  do  me  harm,  and 
may  succeed  in  the  end.  It  is  a  power  of  evil.  How 
can  I  fight  against  it,  since  it  comes  when  I  am  asleep 
and  have  no  will?     What  ought  I  to  do? 

"I  am  afraid  to  meet  Signor  Lamberti  now,  much 
more  afraid  than  I  was  a  week  ago,  before  this  other 
trouble  began.  But  when  I  am  dreaming,  I  am  not 
afraid  of  him.  I  do  what  he  makes  me  do  without  any 
resistance,  and  I  am  glad  to  do  it.  I  want  to  be  his 
slave,  then.  He  makes  me  sit  down  and  listen  to  him, 
and  I  believe  all  he  says.  We  always  sit  on  that  bench 
near  the  fountain  in  my  villa.  He  tells  me  that  he 
loves  me  much  better  than  Guido  does,  and  that  he  is 
much  better  able  to  protect  me  than  Guido.  He  says 
that  his  heart  is  breaking  because  he  loves  me  and  is 
Guido's  friend,  and  he  looks  thin  and  worn,  just  as  he 
does  in  real  life.  When  I  dream  of  him,  I  do  not  mind 
the  glittering  in  his  eyes,  but  when  I  meet  him  it 
frightens  me.  Of  course,  it  is  quite  impossible  that  he 
should  know  how  I  dream  of  him  now.  Yet,  I  am  sure 
he  knew  all  about  the  other  vision.  He  said  very  little, 
but  I  am  sure  of  it,  though  I  cannot  explain  it.  This 
is  much  worse  than  the  other.  But  if  I  go  back  to  the 
other,  I  shall  be  doing  wrong,  because  I  shall  be  con- 
senting ;  and  now  I  am  not  doing  wrong,  because  it 
happens  against  my  will,  and  I  go  to  sleep  praying  that 
it  may  never  happen  again,  and  I  am  in  earnest.  God 
help  me !  I  know  that  when  I  sit  beside  him  on  the 
bench  I  love  him !  And  yet  he  is  the  only  man  in  all 
the  world  whom  I  wish  never  to  meet  again.  God  help 
me!" 


A   STORY  OF  MODERN  ROME  245 

Her  head  sank  upon  her  folded  hands  at  last,  and  her 
eyes  were  closely  shut.  She  threw  her  whole  soul  into 
the  appeal  to  heaven  for  help  and  strength,  till  she 
believed  that  it  must  come  to  her  at  once  in  some  real 
shape,  with  inspired  wisdom  and  the  comfort  of  the 
Holy  Spirit.  She  had  never  before  in  her  life  prayed 
as  she  was  praying  now,  with  heart  and  soul  and  mind, 
though  not  with  any  form  of  words. 

Then  came  a  moment  in  which  she  thought  of  nothing 
and  waited.  She  knew  it  well,  that  blank  between  one 
state  and  the  other,  that  total  suspension  of  all  her 
faculties  just  before  she  began  to  see  an  unreal  world, 
that  breathless  stillness  of  anticipation  before  the 
supreme  moment  of  change.  She  was  quite  powerless 
now,  for  her  waking  will  was  already  asleep. 

The  instant  was  over,  and  the  vision  had  come,  but 
it  was  not  what  she  had  always  seen  before.  It  was 
something  strangely  familiar,  yet  beautiful  and  high  and 
clear.  Her  consciousness  was  in  the  midst  of  a  world 
of  light,  at  peace ;  and  then,  all  round  her,  a  brightness 
stole  upwards  as  out  of  a  clear  and  soft  horizon,  more 
radiant  than  the  light  itself  that  was  already  in  the  air. 
And  as  when  evening  creeps  up  to  the  sky  the  stars 
begin  to  shine  faintly,  more  guessed  at  than  really  seen, 
so  she  began  to  see  heavenly  beings,  growing  more  and 
more  distinct,  and  she  was  lifted  up  among  them,  and 
all  her  heart  cried  out  in  joy  and  praise.  And  suddenly 
the  cross  shone  out  in  a  rosy  radiance  brighter  than  all, 
and  from  head  to  foot  and  from  arm  to  arm  of  it  the  light 
flowed  and  flashed,  and  joined  and  passed  and  parted, 


246  CECILIA 

in  the  holy  sign.  From  itself  came  forth  a  melody,  in 
which  she  was  rapt  and  swept  upwards  as  though  she 
were  herself  a  wave  of  the  glorious  sound.  But  of 
the  words,  three  only  came  to  her,  and  they  were 
these :  Arise  and  conquer  !  ^ 

Then  all  was  still  and  calm  again,  and  she  was  kneel- 
ing at  her  chair,  the  sight  still  in  her  inward  eyes,  the 
words  still  ringing  in  her  heart,  but  herself  awake  again. 

She  knew  the  vision  now  that  it  was  past ;  for  often, 
reading  the  matchless  verses  of  the  "  Paradise,"  she  had 
intensely  longed  to  see  as  the  dead  poet  must  have  seen 
before  he  could  write  as  he  wrote.  It  did  not  seem 
strange  that  her  hope  should  have  been  fulfilled  at  last 
in  the  church  of  the  Holy  Cross.  Her  lips  formed  the 
words,  and  she  spoke  them,  consciously  in  her  own  voice, 
sweet  and  low : 

"  Arise  and  conquer !  " 

It  was  what  she  had  prayed  for  —  the  peace,  the 
strength,  the  knowledge ;  it  was  all  in  that  little  sen- 
tence. She  rose  to  her  feet,  and  stood  still  a  moment, 
and  her  face  was  calm  and  radiant,  like  the  faces  of 
the  heavenly  beings  she  had  looked  upon.  There  was 
a  world  before  her  of  which  she  had  not  dreamt  before, 
better  than  that  ancient  one  that  had  vanished  and  in 
which  she  had  been  a  Vestal  Virgin,  more  real  than 
that  mysterious  one  in  which  she  had  floated  between 
two  existences,  and  whence  the  miserable  longing  for 
an  earthly  body  had  brought  her  back  to  be   Cecilia 

1  A  free  translation  of  some  passages  in  the  fourteenth  canto  of 
Dante's  Paradiso. 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  247 

Palladio,  and  to  fight  again  her  battle  for  freedom 
and  immortality. 

It  mattered  little  that  her  prayer  should  have  been  an- 
swered by  the  imagined  sight  of  something  described  by 
another,  and  long  familiar  to  her  in  his  lofty  verse.  The 
prayer  was  answered,  and  she  had  strength  to  go  on,  and 
she  should  find  wisdom  and  light  to  choose  the  right 
path.  Henceforth,  when  she  was  weak  and  weary,  and 
filled  with  loathing  of  what  she  dreaded  most,  she  could 
shut  her  eyes  as  she  had  done  just  now,  and  pray,  and 
wait,  and  the  transcendent  glory  of  paradise  would  rise 
within  her,  and  give  her  strength  to  live,  and  drive  away 
that  power  of  evil  that  hurt  her,  and  made  night  fright- 
ful, and  day  but  a  long  waiting  for  the  night. 

She  came  out  into  the  summer  glare  with  the  patient 
Petersen,  and  breathed  the  summer  heat  as  if  she  were 
drawing  in  new  life  with  every  breath ;  and  they  drove 
home,  down  the  long  and  lonely  road  that  leads  to  the 
new  quarter,  between  dust-whitened  trees,  and  then 
down  into  the  city  and  through  the  cooler  streets,  till 
at  last  the  cab  stopped  before  the  columns  of  the 
Palazzo  Massimo. 

Celia  ran  up  the  stairs,  as  if  her  light  feet  did  not 
need  to  touch  them  to  carry  her  upwards,  while  Peter- 
sen solemnly  panted  after  her,  and  she  went  to  her 
own  room. 

She  had  a  vague  desire  to  change  everything  in  it,  to 
get  rid  of  all  the  objects  that  reminded  her  of  the  mis- 
erable nights,  and  the  sad  hours  of  day,  which  she  had 
spent  there  ;  she  wanted  to  move  the  bed  to  the  other 


248  CECILIA 

end  of  the  room,  the  writing  table  to  the  other  window, 
the  long  glass  to  a  different  place,  to  hang  the  walls 
with  another  colour,  and  to  banish  the  two  tall  candle- 
sticks for  ever.  It  would  be  like  beginning  her  life 
over  again. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

After  this  Cecilia  no  longer  avoided  Lamberti ;  on 
the  contrary,  she  sought  opportunities  of  seeing  him  and 
of  talking  with  him,  for  she  was  sure  that  she  had 
gained  some  sort  of  new  strength  which  could  protect 
her  against  her  imagination,  till  all  her  old  illusions 
should  vanish  in  the  clear  light  of  daily  familiarity. 
For  some  time  she  did  not  dream  of  Lamberti,  she  be- 
lieved that  the  spell  was  broken,  and  her  fear  of  meeting 
him  diminished  quickly. 

She  made  her  mother  ask  him  to  dinner,  but  he  wrote 
an  excuse  and  did  not  come.  Then  she  complained  to 
Guido,  and  Guido  reproached  his  friend. 

"  They  really  wish  to  know  you  better,"  he  said. 
"If  the  Contessina  ever  felt  for  you  quite  the  same 
antipathy  which  you  felt  for  her,  she  has  got  over  it. 
I  think  you  ought  to  try  to  do  as  much.     Will  you  ?  " 

The  invitation  was  renewed  for  another  day,  and 
Lamberti  accepted  it.  In  the  evening,  in  order  to  give 
his  friend  a  chance  of  talking  with  Cecilia,  Guido  sat 
down  by  the  Countess,  and  began  to  discuss  matters 
connected  with  the  wedding.  It  would  have  been  con- 
trary to  all  established  custom  that  the  marriage  should 
take  place  without  a  contract,  and  that  alone  was  a  sub- 
ject about  which  much  could  be  said.     Guido  insisted 

249 


250  CECILIA 

that  Cecilia  should  remain  sole  mistress  of  her  fortune, 
and  the  Countess  would  naturally  have  made  no  objec- 
tion, but  the  Princess  had  told  her,  and  had  repeated 
more  than  once,  that  she  expected  Cecilia  to  bring  her 
husband  a  dowry  of  at  least  a  million  of  francs.  Baron 
Goldbirn  thought  this  too  much,  but  the  Countess  was 
willing  to  consent,  because  she  feared  that  the  Princess 
would  make  trouble  at  the  last  minute  if  she  did  not. 
Cecilia  had  of  course  never  discussed  the  matter  with 
the  Princess,  but  she  was  altogether  of  the  latter's 
opinion,  and  told  her  mother  so.  The  obstacle  lay  in 
Guido's  refusal  to  accept  a  penny  of  his  future  wife's 
fortune,  and  on  this  point  the  whole  obstinacy  of  his 
father's  race  was  roused.  The  Countess  could  mani- 
festly not  threaten  to  break  off  the  engagement  because 
Guido  would  not  accept  the  dowry,  but  on  the  other 
hand  she  greatly  feared  Guido's  aunt.  So  there  was 
ample  matter  for  discussion  whenever  the  subject  was 
broached. 

It  was  a  hot  evening,  and  all  the  curtains  were  drawn 
back  before  the  open  windows,  only  the  blinds  being 
closed.  Cecilia  and  Lamberti  gravitated,  as  it  were,  to 
the  farther  end  of  the  room.  A  piano  stood  near  the 
window  there. 

"Do  you  play?"  Lamberti  asked,  looking  at  the  in- 
strument. 

He  thought  that  she  did.  All  young  girls  are  sup- 
posed to  have  talent  for  music. 

"No,"  Cecilia  answered.  "I  have  no  accomplish- 
ments.    Do  you  play  the  piano?" 


A   STOEY   OF   MODERN   KOME  251 

"  Only  by  ear.     I  do  not  know  a  note  of  music." 

"  Play  me  something.  Will  you  ?  But  I  suppose  the 
piano  is  out  of  tune,  for  nobody  ever  uses  it  since  we 
stopped  dancing." 

Lamberti  touched  the  keys,  standing,  and  struck  a 
few  soft  chords. 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  It  is  not  badly  out  of  tune.  But  if 
I  play,  it  will  be  the  end  of  our  acquaintance." 

"  Perhaps  it  may  be  the  beginning,"  Cecilia  answered, 
and  their  eyes  met  for  a  moment. 

"  If  it  amuses  you,  I  will  try,"  said  Lamberti,  looking 
away,  and  sitting  down  before  the  keys.  '^  You  must 
be  easily  pleased  if  you  can  listen  to  me,"  he  added, 
laughing,  as  he  struck  a  few  chords  again. 

Cecilia  sat  down  in  a  low  chair  between  him  and  the 
window,  at  the  left  of  the  key-board.  Her  mother 
glanced  at  Lamberti  with  a  little  surprise,  and  then 
went  on  talking  with  Guido. 

Lamberti  began  to  play  a  favourite  waltz,  not  loud, 
but  with  a  good  deal  of  spirit  and  a  perfect  sense  of 
time.  Cecilia  had  often  danced  to  the  tune  in  the 
spring,  and  liked  it.  He  broke  off  suddenly,  and  made 
slow  chords  again. 

"  Have  you  forgotten  the  rest  ?  "  Cecilia  asked. 

"  No.  I  was  thinking  of  something  else.  Did  you 
ever  hear  this  ?  " 

He  played  an  old  Sicilian  melody  with  one  hand,  and 
then  took  it  up  in  a  second  part*  and  then  a  third,  that 
made  strange  minor  harmonies. 

"I  never  heard  that,"  Cecilia  said,  as  he  looked  at 


252  CECILIA 

her.  "  I  like  it.  It  must  be  very  ancient.  Play  it 
again." 

By  way  of  answer,  he  began  to  sing  the  old  song,  ac- 
companying himself  with  the  same  old  harmonies.  He 
had  no  particular  voice,  and  it  was  more  like  humming 
than  singing,  so  far  as  the  tone  was  concerned,  but  he 
pronounced  every  word  distinctly,  and  imitated  the 
peculiar  intonation  of  the  southern  people  to  perfec- 
tion. 

"  Do  you  understand  ? "  he  asked,  when  he  came  to 
the  end. 

"Not  a  word."  Cecilia  asked,  "Is  it  Arabic?  It 
sounds  like  it." 

"  No.  It  is  our  own  beloved  Italian,"  laughed  Lam- 
berti,  "  only  it  is  the  Sicilian  dialect.  If  that  sort  of 
thing  amuses  you,  I  can  go  on  for  hours." 

Many  Italians  have  the  facility  he  possessed,  and  the 
good  memory  for  both  words  and  music,  and  he  had 
unconsciously  developed  what  talent  he  had,  in  places 
where  time  was  long  and  there  was  nothing  to  do.  He 
changed  the  key  and  hummed  a  little  Arab  melody  from 
the  desert. 

Cecilia  sat  quite  still  and  watched  the  outline  of  his 
head  against  the  light.  It  was  an  energetic  head,  but 
the  face  was  not  a  cruel  one,  and  this  evening  she  had 
not  seen  what  she  called  the  ruthless  look  in  his  eyes. 
She  was  not  at  all  afraid  of  him  now,  nor  would  she 
have  been  even  if  they  had  been  quite  alone  in  the 
room.  She  almost  wished  to  tell  him  so,  and  then 
smiled  at  the  thought. 


A  STORY  OF  MODERN  ROME  253 

So  this  was  the  reality  of  the  vision  that  had  haunted 
her  dreams  and  had  caused  her  such  unutterable  suffer- 
ing until  she  had  found  strength  to  break  the  habit  of 
her  imagination.  The  reality  was  not  at  all  terrible. 
She  could  imagine  the  man  roused  to  action,  fighting 
for  his  life,  single-handed  against  many,  as  she  had  been 
told  that  he  had  fought.  He  looked  both  brave  and 
strong.  But  she  could  not  imagine  that  she  should  ever 
have  cause  to  be  afraid  of  him  again.  There  he  sat, 
beside  her,  humming  snatches  of  songs  he  remembered 
from  his  many  voyages,  his  hands  moving  not  at  all 
gracefully  over  the  keys ;  he  was  evidently  a  very 
simple  and  good-natured  man,  willing  to  do  anything 
that  could  amuse  her,  without  the  slightest  affectation. 
He  was  just  the  kind  of  friend  for  Guido,  and  it  was 
her  duty  to  like  Guido's  friend.  It  would  not  be  hard, 
now  that  she  had  got  out  of  the  labyrinth  of  absurd 
illusions  that  had  made  it  impossible.  She  resolutely 
put  aside  the  recollection  of  that  afternoon  at  the  Villa 
Madama.  It  belonged  to  the  class  of  things  about 
which  she  was  determined  never  to  think  again.  "  Arise 
and  conquer  I "  She  had  come  back  to  her  real  self, 
and  had  overcome. 

He  stopped  singing,  but  his  hands  still  lay  on  the 
keys  and  he  struck  occasional  chords;  and  he  turned 
his  face  half  towards  her,  and  spoke  in  an  undertone. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  if  I  offended  you  by  not  coming 
more  often  to  your  house,"  he  said.  "  Guido  told  me. 
I  thought  perhaps  you  would  understand  why  I  did  not 
come." 


264  CECILIA 

Cecilia  looked  at  him  and  was  silent  for  a  moment, 
but  she  felt  very  strong  and  sure  of  herself. 

"  Signor  Lamberti,"  she  said  presently,  "I  want  to 
ask  you  to  do  something  —  for  me." 

There  was  a  little  emphasis  on  the  last  word.  He 
turned  quite  towards  her  now,  but  he  still  made  chords 
on  the  instrument,  for  he  knew  that  the  Countess  had 
extraordinary  ears.  His  impulse  was  to  tell  her  that 
he  would  do  anything  she  asked  of  him,  no  matter  how 
hard  it  might  be  ;  but  he  controlled  it. 

''  Certainly,"  he  answered.     "  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Forget  that  we  met  in  the  Forum,  and  forget  what 
we  said  to  each  other  at  the  garden  party.  Will  you  ? 
It  was  all  a  coincidence,  of  course,  but  I  behaved  very 
foolishly,  and  I  do  not  like  to  think  that  you  remember 
it.     Will  you  try  and  forget  it  all  ?  " 

"  I  will  try,"  Lamberti  answered,  looking  down  at  the 
keys.  "  At  all  events,  I  can  promise  never  to  remind 
you  of  it,  as  I  did  just  now." 

"  That  is  what  I  meant,"  Cecilia  said.  "  Let  us 
never  remind  each  other  of  it.  Of  course  we  cannot 
really  forget,  in  our  own  selves,  but  we  can  begin  again 
from  the  beginning,  this  evening,  as  if  it  had  never 
happened.  We  can  be  real  friends,  as  we  ought  to 
be." 

"Can  we?"  Lamberti  asked  the  question  in  a 
doubtful  tone,  and  glanced  uneasily  at  her. 

"  I  can,  if  you  can,"  she  answered  courageously, 
"  and  I  mean  to  be." 

"  Then  I  can,  too,"  Lamberti  said,  but  his  lips  shut 


A   STOEY  OF   MODEEN  ROME  255 

tightly  as  if  he  regretted  the  words  as  soon  as  they 
were  spoken. 

"  It  will  be  easy,  now,"  Cecilia  went  on.  "It  will  be 
much  easier  because  —  "     She  stopped. 

"  Why  will  it  be  so  much  eaiser  ?  "  Lamberti  asked, 
looking  down  again. 

"  We  were  not  going  to  speak  of  those  things  again," 
Cecilia  said.     "  We  had  better  not  begin." 

"  I  only  ast  that  one  question.  Tell  me  why  it  will 
be  easier  now.     It  may  help  me  to  forget." 

"  It  will  be  easier  —  because  I  do  not  dream  of  you 
any  more  —  I  mean  of  the  man  who  is  like  you."  She 
was  blushing  faintly,  but  she  knew  that  he  would  not 
look  at  her,  and  she  was  sitting  in  the  shadow. 

"  On  what  day  did  you  stop  dreaming  ?  "  he  asked, 
between  two  chords. 

"  It  was  last  week.  Let  me  see.  It  was  a  Wednes- 
day. On  Wednesday  night  I  did  not  dream."  He 
nodded  gravely  over  the  keys,  as  if  he  had  expected 
the  answer. 

"  Did  you  ever  read  anything  about  telepathy  ?  "  he 
asked.  "  I  did  not  dream  of  you  on  Wednesday  night 
either.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  tried  to  find  you  and 
could  not." 

"  Were  you  trying  to  find  me  before  ?  "  Cecilia  asked, 
as  if  it  were  the  most  natural  question  in  the  world. 

"Yes.  In  my  dreams  I  almost  always  found  you. 
There  was  a  break  —  I  forget  when.  The  old  dream 
about  the  house  of  the  Vestals  stopped  suddenly. 
Then  I  missed  you  and  tried  to  find  you.     You  were 


256  CECILIA 

always  sitting  on  that  bench  by  the  fountain  in  the 
villa.  Last  Wednesday  I  dreamt  I  was  there,  but  you 
did  not  come." 

Cecilia  shuddered,  as  if  the  night  air  from  the  open 
window  chilled  her. 

"  Are  you  cold  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Shall  I  shut  the  win- 
dow?" 

"  No,  I  was  frightened,"  she  answered.  "  We  must 
never  talk  about  all  that  again.  Do  you  know,  I 
think  it  is  wrong  to  talk  about  them.  There  is  some 
power  of  evil  —  " 

"  I  do  not  deny  the  existence  of  the  devil  at  all," 
Lamberti  answered,  with  a  faint  smile.  "  But  I  think 
this  is  only  a  strange  case  of  telepathy.  I  will  do  as 
you  wish ;  though  my  own  belief  is,  after  this  evening, 
that  it  is  better  to  talk  about  it  all  quite  fearlessly,  and 
grow  used  to  it.  We  shall  be  much  less  afraid  of  it  if 
we  look  upon  it  as  something  not  at  all  supernatural, 
which  could  easily  be  explained  if  we  knew  enough 
about  those  things." 

"Perhaps,"  Cecilia  answered  doubtfully.  "You  may 
be  right.     I  do  not  know." 

"  You  are  going  to  marry  my  most  intimate  friend," 
Lamberti  continued,  "and  I  am  unfortunately  con- 
demned to  stay  in  Rome  for  some  time,  for  a  year,  I 
fancy,  and  perhaps  even  longer." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  you  are  '  unfortunately  con- 
demned '  to  stay  ?  " 

"  Because  I  did  my  best  to  get  away.  You  look  sur- 
prised.    I  begged  the  Minister  to  shorten  my  leave  and 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  257 

send  me  to  sea  at  once,  with  or  without  promotion. 
Instead,  I  was  named  a  member  of  a  commission  which 
will  sit  a  long  time.  Since  we  are  talking  frankly,  I 
wanted  to  get  away  from  you,  and  not  to  see  you  again 
for  years.  But  now  that  I  must  stay  here,  or  leave  the 
service,  we  cannot  help  meeting ;  so  I  think  it  is  more 
sensible  not  to  take  any  solemn  oaths  never  to  allude 
to  these  strange  coincidences,  or  whatever  they  are,  but 
to  talk  them  out  of  existence ;  all  the  more  so,  as  they 
seem  to  have  suddenly  come  to  an  end.  I  only  tell 
you  what  would  be  easier  for  me ;  but  I  will  do  what- 
ever makes  it  most  easy  for  you." 

"I  prayed  that  they  might  stop,"  said  Cecilia,  in  a 
very  low  voice.  "  I  want  you  to  be  my  friend,  and  as 
long  as  I  dreamt  of  you  —  in  that  way  —  I  felt  that  it 
was  impossible." 

"  Of  course,"  Lamberti  answered,  without  hesitation. 
Then,  with  an  attempt  at  a  laugh,  he  corrected  himself. 
"I  apologise  for  all  the  things  I  said  to  you  in  my 
dreams." 

"Please  do  not  laugh  about  it."  Her  voice  was  a 
little  unsteady,  and  she  was  looking  down,  so  that  he 
could  not  see  her  face. 

"  It  is  better  not  to  take  it  too  seriously,"  he  replied 
gravely.  "Could  anything  be  more  absurd  than  that 
two  people  who  were  mere  acquaintances  then  should 
fall  in  love  with  each  other  in  their  dreams?  It  is 
utterly  ridiculous.  Any  sane  person  would  laugh  at 
the  idea." 

"Yes;   no  doubt.      But  there   is   more   than   that» 


268  CECILIA 

Call  it  telepathy,  or  whatever  you  please,  it  cannot  be 
a  mere  coincidence.  Do  you  know  that,  until  last 
Wednesday,  I  met  you  in  my  dream,  just  where  you 
dreamed  of  meeting  me,  at  the  bench  in  the  villa  ?  " 

He  did  not  seem  surprised,  but  listened  attentively 
while  she  continued. 

"  I  am  sure  that  we  really  met,"  she  went  on  gravely. 
"  It  may  be  in  some  natural  way  or  not.  It  does  not 
matter.  We  must  never  meet  again  like  that  —  never. 
Do  you  understand?  We  must  promise  never  to  try 
and  find  each  other  in  our  dreams.    Will  you  promise?" 

"Yes;  I  promise."     Lamberti  spoke  gravely. 

"  I  promise,  too,"  Cecilia  said. 

Then  they  were  both  silent  for  a  time.  It  was  like 
a  real  parting,  and  they  felt  it,  and  for  a  few  moments 
each  was  thinking  of  the  bench  by  the  fountain  in  the 
Villa  Madama. 

"  We  owe  it  to  Guido,"  Lamberti  said  at  last,  almost 
unconsciously. 

"Yes,"  the  girl  answered;  "and  to  ourselves.    Thank 

you." 

With  an  impulse  she  did  not  suspect,  she  held  out 
her  hand  to  him,  and  waited  for  him  to  take  it.  Neither 
her  mother  nor  Guido  could  see  the  gesture,  for  Lam- 
berti's  seated  figure  screened  her  from  them;  but  he 
could  not  have  taken  her  hand  in  his  right  without 
changing  his  position,  since  she  was  seated  low  on  his 
other  side ;  so  he  took  it  quietly  in  his  left,  and  the 
two  met  and  pressed  each  the  other  for  a  second. 

In  that  touch  Cecilia  felt  that  all  her  fear  of  him 


A   STORY  OF  MODERN  BOMB  259 

ended  for  ever,  and  that  of  all  men  she  could  trust  him 
the  most,  and  that  he  would  protect  her,  if  ever  he 
might,  even  more  effectually  than  Guido.  His  hand 
was  cool,  and  steady,  and  strong,  and  enfolding  —  the 
hand  of  a  brave  man.  But  if  she  had  looked  she  would 
have  seen  that  his  face  was  paler  than  usual,  and  that 
his  eyes  seemed  veiled. 

She  rose,  and  he  followed  her  as  she  moved  slowly 
forward. 

"  What  a  charming  talent  you  have ! "  cried  the 
Countess  in  an  encouraging  tone,  when  Lamberti  was 
near  her. 

"  Have  you  made  acquaintance  at  last  ?  "  Guido  was 
asking  of  Cecilia,  in  an  undertone. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  gravely.  "  I  think  we  shall  be 
good  friends." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

People  said  that  Guido  had  ceased  to  be  interesting 
since  he  had  been  engaged  to  be  married.  Until  that 
time,  there  had  been  an  element  of  romance  about  him, 
which  many  women  thought  attractive ;  and  most  men 
had  been  willing  to  look  upon  him  as  a  being  slightly 
superior  to  themselves,  who  cared  only  for  books  and 
engravings,  though  he  never  thrust  his  tastes  upon  other 
people,  nor  made  any  show  of  knowing  more  than  others, 
and  whose  opinion  on  points  of  honour  was  the  very 
best  that  could  be  had.  It  was  so  good,  indeed,  that  he 
was  not  often  asked  to  give  it. 

Now,  however,  they  said  that  he  was  changed ;  that 
he  was  complacent  and  pleased  with  himself ;  that  this 
was  no  wonder,  because  he  was  marrying  a  handsome 
fortune  with  a  pretty  and  charming  wife ;  that  he  had 
done  uncommonly  well  for  himself ;  and  much  more  to 
the  same  purpose.  Also,  the  mothers  of  impecunious 
marriageable  sons  of  noble  lineage  said  in  their  maternal 
hearts  that  if  they  had  only  guessed  that  Countess 
Fortiguerra  would  give  her  daughter  to  the  first  man 
who  asked  for  her,  they  would  not  have  let  Guido  be 
the  one. 

The  judgments  of  society  are  rarely  quite  at  fault, 
but  they  are  almost  always  relative  and  liable  to  change. 

260 


A   STORY   OF  MODERN  ROME  261 

They  are,  indeed,  appreciations  of  an  existing  state  of 
things,  rather  than  verdicts  from  which  there  is  no 
appeal.  The  verdict  comes  after  the  state  of  things 
has  ceased  to  exist. 

Guido  was  happy,  and  nothing  looks  duller  than  the 
happiness  of  quiet  people.  Nobody  will  go  far  to  look 
at  the  sea  when  it  is  calm,  if  he  is  used  to  seeing  it  at 
all ;  but  those  who  live  near  it  will  walk  a  mile  or  two 
to  watch  the  breakers  in  a  storm. 

In  the  first  place,  Guido  was  in  love,  and  more  in 
love  with  Cecilia's  face  and  figure  than  he  guessed.  In 
the  early  days  of  their  acquaintance  he  had  enjoyed 
talking  with  her  about  the  subjects  in  which  she  was 
interested.  Such  conversation  generally  brought  him  to 
that  condition  of  intellectual  suspense  which  was  pecul- 
iarly delightful  to  him,  for  though  she  did  not  per- 
suade him  to  accept  her  own  points  of  view,  she  made 
him  feel  more  doubtful  about  his  own,  so  far  as  any 
of  them  were  fixed,  and  doubt  meant  revery,  musing, 
imaginative  argument  about  questions  that  might  never 
be  answered.  But  he  and  she  had  now  advanced  to 
another  stage.  Unconsciously,  all  that  side  of  his  nature 
had  fallen  into  abeyance,  and  he  thought  only  of  posi- 
tive things  in  the  immediate  future.  When  he  was 
with  Cecilia,  no  matter  how  the  conversation  began,  it 
soon  turned  upon  their  plans  for  their  married  life; 
and  he  found  it  so  infinitely  pleasant  to  talk  of  such 
matters  that  it  did  not  occur  to  him  to  ask  whether 
she  regarded  them  as  equally  interesting. 

She  did  not;  she  saw  the  change  in  him,  and   re- 


262  CECILIA 

gretted  it.  A  woman  who  is  not  really  in  love,  gen- 
erally likes  a  man  less  after  he  has  fallen  hopelessly 
in  love  with  her.  It  is  true  that  she  sometimes  likes 
herself  the  better  for  her  new  conquest,  and  there 
may  be  some  compensation  in  that;  but  there  is 
something  tiresome,  if  not  repugnant  to  her,  in  the 
placid,  possessive  complacency  of  a  future  husband, 
who  seems  to  forget  that  a  woman  has  any  intelligence 
except  in  matters  concerning  furniture  and  the  deco- 
ration of  a  house. 

Cecilia  was  not  capricious ;  she  really  liked  Guido 
as  much  as  ever,  and  she  would  not  even  admit  that 
he  bored  her  when  he  came  back  again  and  again 
to  the  same  topics.  She  tried  hard  to  look  forward 
to  the  time  when  all  the  former  charm  of  their  in- 
tercourse should  return,  and  when,  besides  being  the 
best  of.  friends,  he  would  again  be  the  most  agree- 
able of  companions.  It  seemed  very  far  off;  and 
yet,  in  her  heart,  she  hoped  that  something  might 
happen  to  hinder  her  marriage,  or  at  least  to  put  it 
off  another  year. 

Her  life  seemed  very  blank  after  the  great  struggle 
was  ended,  and  in  the  long  summer  mornings  before 
Guido  came  to  luncheon,  she  was  conscious  of  longing 
for  something  that  should  take  the  place  of  the  old 
dreams,  something  she  could  not  understand,  that 
awoke  under  the  listlessness  which  had  come  upon 
her.  It  was  a  sort  of  sadness,  like  a  regret  for  a 
loss  that  had  not  really  been  suffered,  and  yet  was 
present;    it   was   a   craving   for   sympathy  where    she 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  263 

had  deserved  none,  and  it  made  her  inclined  to  pity 
herself  without  reason.  She  sometimes  felt  it  after 
Guido  had  come,  and  it  stayed  with  her,  a  strange 
yearning  after  an  unknown  happiness  that  was  never 
to  be  hers,  a  half-comforting  and  infinitely  sad  con- 
viction that  she  was  to  die  young  and  that  people 
would  mourn  for  her,  but  not  those,  or  not  that  one, 
who  ought  to  be  most  sorry  that  she  was  gone.  All 
her  books  were  empty  of  what  she  wanted,  and  for 
hours  she  sat  still,  doing  nothing,  or  stood  leaning 
on  the  window-sill,  gazing  down  through  the  slats  of 
the  blinds  at  the  glaring  street,  unconscious  of  the 
heat  and  the  strong  light,  and  of  the  moving  figures 
that  passed. 

Occasionally  she  drove  out  to  the  Villa  Madama  in 
the  afternoon  with  her  mother,  and  Guido  joined  them. 
Lamberti  did  not  come  there,  though  he  often  came 
to  the  house  in  the  evening,  sometimes  with  his 
friend,  and  sometimes  later.  The  two  always  went 
away  together.  At  the  villa,  Cecilia  never  sat  down 
on  the  bench  by  the  fountain,  but  from  a  distance  she 
looked  at  it,  and  it  was  like  looking  at  a  grave.  In 
dreams  she  had  sat  there  too  often  with  another  to 
go  there  alone  now;  she  had  heard  words  there  that 
touched  her  heart  too  deeply  to  be  so  easily  forgotten, 
and  there  had  been  silences  too  happy  to  forget. 
She  had  burie*d  all  that  by  the  garden  seat,  but  it 
was  better  not  to  go  near  the  place  again.  What  she 
had  laid  out  of  sight  there  might  not  be  quite  dead 
yet,  and  if  she  sat  in   the  old  place   she   might   hear 


I 


264  CECILIA 

some  piteous  cry  from  beneath  her  feet;  or  its  ghost 
might  rise  and  stare  at  her,  the  ghost,  of  a  dream. 
Then,  the  yearning  and  the  longing  grew  stronger 
and  hurt  her  sharply,  and  she  turned  under  the  great 
door,  into  the  hall,  and  was  very  glad  when  her 
mother  began  to  chatter  about  dress  and  people. 

But  one  day  the  very  thing  happened  which  she  had 
always  tried  to  avert.  Guido  insisted  on  walking  up  and 
down  the  path  with  her,  and  they  passed  and  repassed 
the  bench,  till  she  was  sure  that  he  would  make  her  sit 
down  upon  it.  She  tried  to  linger  at  the  opposite  end, 
but  he  was  interested  in  what  he  was  saying  and  did 
not  notice  her  reluctance  to  turn  back. 

Then  it  came.  He  stood  still  by  the  fountain,  and 
then  he  sat  down  quite  naturally,  and  evidently  ex- 
pecting her  readiness  to  do  the  same.  She  started 
slightly  and  looked  about,  as  if  to  find  some  means  of 
escape,  but  a  moment  later  she  had  gathered  her 
courage  and  was  sitting  beside  him. 

The  scene  came  back  with  excessive  vividness. 
There  was  the  evening  light,  the  first  tinge  of  violet  on 
the  Samnite  mountains,  the  base  of  Monte  Cavo  already 
purple,  the  glow  on  Frascati,  and  nearer,  on  Marino  ; 
Rome  was  at  her  feet,  in  a  rising  mist  beyond  the  flow- 
ing river.  Guido  talked  on,  but  she  did  not  hear  him. 
She  heard  another  voice  and  other  words,  less  gentle  and 
less  calm.  She  felt  other  eyes  upon  her,  waiting  for 
hers  to  answer  them,  she  felt  a  hand  stealing  near  to  hers 
as  her  own  lay  on  the  bench  at  her  side. 

Still  Guido  talked,  needing  no  reply,  perfectly  con- 


A   STOEY  OF   MODEBN  EOMB  266 

fident  and  happy.  She  did  not  hear  what  he  said,  but 
when  he  paused  she  mechanically  nodded  her  head,  as 
if  agreeing  with  him,  and  instantly  lost  herself  again. 
She  could  not  help  it.  She  expected  the  touch,  and  the 
look,  and  then  the  blinding  rush  that  used  to  come  after 
it,  lifting  her  from  her  feet  and  carrying  her  whole  nature 
away  as  the  south  wind  whirls  dry  leaves  up  with  it  and 
far  away. 

That  did  not  come,  and  presently  she  was  covering 
her  face  with  both  hands,  shaking  a  little,  and  Guido 
was  anxiously  asking  what  had  happened. 

"  Nothing,"  she  answered  rather  faintly.  "  It  is  noth- 
ing.    It  will  be  over  in  a  moment." 

He  thought  that  she  had  felt  the  sudden  chill  of  the 
evening  which  is  sometimes  dangerous  in  Rome  in  mid- 
summer, and  he  rose  at  once. 

"  We  had  better  go  in  before  you  catch  cold,"  he  said. 

"  Yes.     Let  us  go  in." 

For  the  first  time,  his  words  really  jarred  on  her.  For 
the  rest  of  her  life,  he  would  tell  her  when  to  go  indoors 
before  catching  cold.  He  was  possessive,  complacent ;  he 
already  looked  upon  her  as  a  person  in  his  charge,  if  not 
as  a  part  of  his  property.  Unreasoningly,  she  said  to  her- 
self it  was  no  concern  of  his  whether  she  caught  cold  or 
not,  and  besides,  there  was  no  question  of  such  a  thing. 
She  had  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands  for  a  very  dif- 
ferent reason,  and  was  ashamed  of  having  done  it,  which 
made  matters  worse.  In  anger  she  told  herself  boldly 
that  she  wished  that  he  were  not  himself,  only  that  once, 
but  that  he  were  Lamberti,  who  at  least  took  the  trouble 


266  CECILIA 

to  amuse  her  and  never  put  on  paternal  airs  to  enquire 
about  her  health. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  revolt.  Guido  dined  with 
them  that  evening,  and  she  was  silent  and  absent-minded. 
Before  the  hour  at  which  he  usually  went  away,  she  rose 
and  bade  him  good  night,  saying  that  she  was  a  little 
tired. 

"  I  am  sure  you  caught  cold  to-day,"  he  said,  with 
real  anxiety. 

"  We  will  not  go  to  the  villa  again,"  she  answered. 
*'Good  night." 

It  was  late  before  she  really  went  to  bed,  for  when  she 
was  at  last  rid  of  the  conscientious  Petersen,  she  sat  long 
in  her  chair  at  the  writing  table  with  a  blank  sheet  of 
letter  paper  before  her  and  a  pen  in  her  hand.  She 
dipped  it  into  the  ink  often,  and  her  fingers  moved  as 
if  she  were  going  to  write,  but  the  point  never  touched 
the  paper.  At  last  the  pen  lay  on  the  table,  and  she 
was  resting  her  chin  upon  her  folded  hands,  her  eyes 
half  closed,  her  breath  drawn  in  short  sighs  that  came 
and  went  between  her  parted  lips.  Then,  though  she 
was  all  alone,  the  blood  rose  suddenly  in  her  face  and 
she  sprang  to  her  feet,  angry  with  herself  and  frowning, 
and  ashamed  of  her  thoughts. 

She  felt  hot,  and  then  cold,  and  then  almost  sick  with 
disgust.  The  vision  that  had  delighted  her  was  far 
away  now ;  she  had  forced  herself  not  to  see  it,  but  the 
man  in  it  had  come  back  to  her  in  dreams;  she  had 
driven  him  out  of  them,  and  for  a  time  she  had  found 
peace,  but  now  he  came  to  her  in  her  waking  thoughts 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN  ROME  267 

and  she  longed  to  see  his  living  face  arid  to  hear  his  real 
voice.  With  utter  self-contempt  and  scorn  of  her  own 
heart,  she  guessed  that  this  was  love,  or  love's  beginning, 
and  that  nothing  could  save  her  now. 

Her  first  impulse  was  to  write  to  him,  to  beg  him  to 
go  away  at  any  price,  never  to  see  her  again  as  long  as 
she  lived.  As  that  was  out  of  the  question,  she  next 
thought  of  writing  to  Guido,  to  tell  him  that  she  could 
not  marry  him,  and  that  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to 
retire  from  the  world  and  spend  her  life  in  a  convent. 
But  that  was  impossible,  too. 

There  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  Either  she  must  make 
one  supreme  effort  to  drive  Lamberti  from  her  thoughts 
and  to  get  back  to  the  state  in  which  she  had  felt  that 
she  could  marry  Guido  and  be  a  good  wife  to  him,  or 
else  she  must  tell  him  frankly  that  the  engagement 
must  end.  He  would  ask  why,  and  she  would  refuse  to 
tell  him,  and  after  that  she  did  not  dare  to  think  of  what 
would  happen.  It  might  ruin  his  life,  for  she  knew  that 
he  loved  her  very  much.  She  was  honestly  and  truly 
much  more  concerned  for  him  than  for  herself.  It  did 
not  matter  what  became  of  her,  if  only  she  could  speak 
the  truth  to  him  without  bringing  harm  to  him  in  the 
future.     The  world  might  say  what  it  pleased. 

It  was  right  to  break  off  her  engagement,  beyond 
question,  and  she  had  done  very  wrong  in  ever  agree- 
ing to  it;  it  was  the  greatest  sin  she  had  ever  com- 
mitted, and  with  a  despairing  impulse  she  sank  upon 
her  knees  and  poured  out  her  heart  in  full  confession 
of  her  fault. 


268  CECILIA 

Never  in  her  life  had  she  confessed  as  she  did  now, 
with  such  a  whole-hearted  hatred  of  her  own  weakness, 
such  willingness  to  bear  all  blame,  such  earnest  desire 
for  forgiveness,  such  hope  for  divine  guidance  in 
making  reparation.  She  would  not  plead  ignorance, 
nor  even  any  omission  to  examine  herself,  as  an  excuse 
for  what  she  had  done.  It  was  all  her  fault,  and  her 
eyes  had  been  open  from  the  first,  and  she  was  about  to 
see  the  whole  life  of  a  good  friend  ruined  through  her 
miserable  weakness. 

As  she  went  over  it  all,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands, 
the  conviction  that  she  loved  Lamberti  grew  with  amaz- 
ing quickness  to  the  certainty  of  a  fact  long  known. 
This  was  her  crime,  that  she  had  been  too  proud  to  own 
that  she  had  loved  him  at  first  sight;  her  punishment 
should  be  never  to  see  him  again.  She  would  abase 
herself  before  Guide  and  confess  everything  to  him  in 
the  very  words  she  was  whispering  now,  and  she  would 
implore  his  forgiveness.  Then,  since  Lamberti  could 
not  leave  Rome,  she  and  her  mother  would  go  away  on 
a  long  journey,  to  Russia,  perhaps,  or  to  America,  or 
China,  and  they  would  never  come  back.  It  must  be 
easy  enough  to  avoid  one  particular  person  in  the  whole 
world. 

This  she  would  do,  but  she  would  not  deny  that  she 
loved  him.  All  her  fault  had  lain  in  trying  to  deny  it 
in  spite  of  what  she  felt  when  he  was  near  her,  and  it 
must  be  still  more  wrong  to  force  the  fact  out  of  sight 
now  that  it  had  brought  her  into  such  great  trouble. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  acknowledge  it, 


A   STORY  OF  MODERK  ROME  269 

though  it  was  shame  and  humiliation  to  do  so.  It  stared 
her  in  the  face,  now  that  she  had  courage  to  own  the 
truth,  and  a  voice  called  out  that  she  had  lied  to  herself, 
to  her  mother,  and  to  Guido  for  many  weeks,  and  per- 
sistently, rather  than  admit  that  she  could  fall  so  low. 
But  even  then,  in  the  midst  of  her  self-abasement, 
another  voice  answered  that  it  was  no  shame  to  love  a 
good  and  true  man,  and  that  Lamberto  Lamberti  was 
both. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

That  night  seemed  the  longest  in  all  Cecilia's  young 
life.  She  was  worn  out  with  fatigue,  and  could  have 
slept  ten  hours,  yet  she  dreaded  to  fall  asleep  lest  she 
should  dream  of  Lamberti,  and  speak  to  him  in  her 
dream  as  she  meant  never  to  speak  to  any  man  now. 
Just  when  she  was  losing  consciousness,  she  roused 
herself  as  one  does  who  fears  a  horrible  nightmare  that 
comes  back  again  and  again.  She  was  afraid  to  be 
alone  in  the  dark  with  her  fear,  and  she  had  left  one 
light  burning  where  it  could  not  shine  into  her  eyes. 
If  she  did  not  sleep  before  daylight,  she  might  not 
dream  after  that.  When  she  shut  her  eyes  she  saw 
Lamberti  looking  at  her. 

She  rose  and  bathed  her  face  and  temples.  The 
water  was  not  very  cold  in  July,  after  standing  in  the 
room  half  the  night,  but  it  cooled  her  brows  a  little  and 
she  lay  down  again,  and  tried  to  repeat  things  she  knew 
by  heart.  She  knew  all  the  fourteenth  canto  of  the 
"Paradise,"  for  instance,  and  said  it  over,  and  tried  to 
see  what  it  described  as  she  had  seen  it  all  in  the  church 
of  Santa  Croce.  While  she  whispered  the  words  she 
looked  forward  to  those  she  loved  best,  the  ones  that 
bade  her  rise  and  get  the  victory,  and  she  went  on  with 
intense  anticipation.    Before  she  reached  them  she  lost 

270 


A   STOEY   UJF  MODERN   ROME  271 

herself,  and  they  formed  themselves   on  her  lips  un- 
noticed as  she  saw  Lamberti's  face  again. 

It  was  unbearable.  She  sat  up  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed  and  stared  into  the  shadow,  and  presently  she 
grasped  her  left  arm  above  the  elbow  and  tried  to  force 
her  nails  into  the  flesh,  with  the  instinctive  idea  that 
pain  must  bring  peace  after  it.  But  she  could  hardly 
hurt  herself  at  all  in  that  wa}^  Again  she  rose,  and 
she  went  and  looked  at  her  reflection  in  the  tall  glass. 

There  was  not  much  light  in  the  room,  but  she  could 
see  that  she  was  very  pale,  and  that  her  eyes  had  a 
strange  look  in  them,  more  like  Lamberti's  than  her 
own.  It  was  a  possession;  she  found  him  everywhere. 
Behind  her  image  in  the  glass  she  saw  the  door  of  the 
room,  the  only  one  there  was,  which  she  had  so  often 
heard  closed  softly  just  as  her  dream  ended.  She  shiv- 
ered, for  the  Palazzo  Massimo  is  a  ghostly  place  at 
night,  and  her  nerves  were  unstrung  by  what  she  had 
suffered.  She  knew  that  she  was  dizzy  for  a  moment, 
and  the  glass  grew  misty  and  then  clear,  and  reflected 
nothing  to  her  sight,  nothing  but  the  whole  door,  as 
if  she  herself  were  not  standing  there,  all  in  white, 
between  it  and  the  mirror. 

It  was  going  to  open,  she  felt  sure.  It  was  going  to 
open  softly,  though  she  knew  it  was  locked,  and  then 
some  one  would  enter.  She  shivered  again,  and  felt 
her  loose  hair  rising  on  her  head,  as  if  lifted  by  a  cool 
breeze.  It  was  a  moment  of  agony,  and  her  teeth  chat- 
tered. He  was  coming,  and  she  was  paralysed,  help- 
less to  move,  rooted  to  the  spot.     In  one  second  more 


272  CECILIA 

she  must  hear  the  slipping  of  the  latch  bolt,  and  he 
would  be  behind  her. 

No,  nothing  came.  Gradually  she  began  to  see  her- 
self in  the  glass  again,  a  faint  ashy  outline,  then  a 
transparent  image,  like  the  wraith  of  her  dead  self, 
with  staring  eyes  and  dishevelled  colourless  hair.  Her 
terror  was  gone ;  she  vaguely  wondered  where  she  had 
been,  and  looked  curiously  at  her  reflected  face. 

"I  think  I  am  going  mad,"  she  said  aloud,  but 
quite  quietly,  as  she  turned  away  from  the  mirror. 

She  lay  down  again  on  her  back,  her  arms  straight- 
ened by  her  sides,  and  she  looked  at  the  ceiling.  Since 
she  must  think  of  something,  she  would  try  to  think 
out  what  she  was  to  say  and  do  on  the  morrow.  She 
would  telephone  to  Guido  in  the  morning  to  come  and 
see  her,  of  course,  and  in  twenty  minutes  he  would  be 
sitting  beside  her  on  the  little  sofa  in  the  drawing- 
room.  Then  she  would  tell  him  everything,  just  as 
she  had  confessed  it  all  to  herself  that  evening.  She 
would  throw  herself  upon  his  mercy,  she  would  say 
that  she  was  irresistibly  drawn  to  his  friend;  but  she 
would  promise  never  to  see  Lamberti  again,  since  that 
was  to  be  the  punishment  of  her  fault.  There  was 
clearly  nothing  else  to  do,  if  she  had  any  self-respect 
left,  any  modesty,  any  sense  of  decency.  It  would  be 
hard  in  the  beginning,  but  afterwards  it  would  grow 
easier. 

Poor  Guido!  he  would  not  understand  at  first,  and 
he  would  look  at  her  as  if  he  were  dazed.  She  would 
give  anything  to  save  him  the  pain  of  it  all,  but  he 


A  STORY  OF  MODERN  ROME  273 

must  bear  it,  and  in  the  end  it  would  be  much  better. 
Of  course,  the  cowardly  way  would  be  to  make  her 
mother  tell  him. 

She  had  not  thought  of  her  mother  till  then,  but  she 
had  grown  used  to  directing  her,  and  to  feeling  that 
she  herself  was  the  ruling  spirit  of  the  two.  Her 
mother  would  accept  the  decision,  though  she  would 
protest  a  good  deal,  and  cry  a  little.  That  was  to  be 
regretted,  but  it  did  not  really  matter  since  this  was  a 
question  of  absolute  right  or  absolute  wrong,  in  which 
there  was  no  choice. 

She  would  not  see  Lamberti  again,  not  even  to  say 
good-bye.  It  would  be  wicked  to  see  him,  now  that  she 
knew  the  truth.  But  it  was  right  to  own  bravely  that 
she  loved  him.  If  she  hesitated  in  that,  there  would 
be  no  sense  in  what  she  meant  to  do.  She  loved  him 
with  all  her  heart,  with  everything  in  her,  with  every 
thought  and  every  instinct,  as  she  had  loved  long  ago  in 
her  vision.  And  as  she  had  overcome  then,  for  the  sake 
of  a  vow  from  which  she  was  really  freed,  so  she  would 
conquer  again  for  the  sake  of  the  promise  she  had  given 
to  Guido  d'Este,  and  was  going  to  revoke  to-morrow. 

A  far  cry  echoed  through  the  silent  street,  and  there 
was  a  faint  grey  light  between  the  slats  of  the  blinds. 
The  darkness  was  ended  at  last,  and  perhaps  she  might 
allow  herself  to  sleep  now.  She  tried,  but  she  could 
not,  and  she  watched  the  dawn  growing  to  cold  day- 
light  in  the  room,  till  the  single  lamp  hardly  glim- 
mered in  the  corner.  She  closed  her  lids  and  rested 
as  well  as  she  could  till  it  was  time  to  get  up. 


274  CECILIA 

She  was  very  pale,  and  there  were  deep  violet  shadows 
under  her  eyes  and  below  the  sharp  arches  of  her  brows, 
but  Petersen  was  very  near-sighted,  and  noticed  nothing 
unusual.  Cecilia  told  her  to  telephone  to  Guido,  asking 
him  to  come  at  ten  o'clock.  When  the  maid  returned, 
Cecilia  bade  her  arrange  her  hair  very  low  at  the  back 
and  to  make  it  as  smooth  as  possible.  There  was  not 
the  slightest  conscious  desire  for  effect  in  the  order; 
when  a  woman  has  made  up  her  mind  to  humiliate  her- 
self she  always  makes  her  hair  look  as  unobtrusive  as 
possible,  just  as  a  conscience-stricken  dog  drops  his 
tail  between  his  legs  and  hangs  down  his  ears  to  avert 
wrath.  We  men  are  often  very  unjust  to  women  about 
such  things,  which  depend  on  instincts  as  old  as 
humanity.  Eastern  mourners  do  not  strew  ashes  on 
their  heads  because  it  is  becoming  to  their  appearance, 
and  a  woman's  equivalents  for  ashes  and  sackcloth  are 
to  do  her  hair  low  and  wear  grey,  if  she  chances  to 
dislike  that  colour. 

"Are  you  going  to  confession,  my  dear?'*  asked  the 
Countess  in  some  surprise  when  they  met. 

"No,"  Cecilia  answered.  "I  could  not  sleep  last 
night.  I  have  telephoned  to  Guido  to  come  at  ten." 
The  Countess  looked  at  her  and  instantly  understood 
that  there  was  trouble. 

"You  are  as  white  as  a  sheet,"  she  said,  with  caution. 
"You  had  better  let  him  come  after  luncheon  to-day." 

"No.     I  must  see  him  at  once." 

"Something  has  happened,"  the  Countess  said 
nervously.     "I  know  something  has  happened." 


A   STORY  OF   MODERN  ROME  275 

"I  will  tell  yon  by-and-by.  Please  do  not  ask  me 
now." 

Her  mother's  look  of  anxiety  turned  slowly  to  an 
expression  of  real  fear,  her  eyes  opened  wide,  she  grew 
pale,  and  her  jaw  fell  as  her  lips  parted.  She  looked 
suddenly  old  and  grey. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  marry  him  after  all,"  she  said, 
after  a  breathless  little  silence. 

Some  seconds  passed  before  Cecilia  answered,  and 
then  her  voice  was  sad  and  low. 

"How  can  I?     I  do  not  love  him." 

The  Countess  was  horror-struck  now,  for  she  knew 
her  daughter  well.  She  began  to  speak  rather  inco- 
herently, but  with  real  earnestness,  imploring  Cecilia 
to  think  of  what  she  was  doing  before  it  was  too  late, 
to  consider  Guido's  feelings,  her  own,  everybody's,  to 
reflect  upon  the  view  the  world  would  take  of  such  bad 
faith,  and,  finally,  to  give  some  reason  for  her  sudden 
decision. 

It  was  in  vain  that  she  pleaded.  Cecilia,  grave  and 
suffering,  answered  that  she  had  taken  everything  into 
consideration  and  knew  that  she  was  doing  right.  The 
world  might  call  it  bad  faith  to  break  an  engagement, 
but  it  would  be  nothing  short  of  a  betrayal  to  marry 
Guido  since  she  had  become  sure  that  she  could  never 
love  him.  That  was  reason  enough,  and  she  would 
give  no  other.  It  was  better  that  Guido  should  suffer 
for  a  few  days  than  be  made  to  suffer  for  a  lifetime. 
She  had  not  consulted  any  one,  she  said,  when  her 
mother  questioned  her;  she  would  have  done  so  if  this 


276  CECILIA 

had  been  a  matter  needing  judgment  and  wisdom,  but 
it  was  merely  one  of  right  and  wrong,  and  she  knew 
what  was  right,  and  meant  to  do  it. 

The  Countess  began  to  cry,  and  when  Cecilia  tried 
to  soothe  her,  she  pushed  the  girl  aside  and  left  the 
room  in  tears.  A  few  minutes  later  Petersen  tele- 
phoned for  the  carriage,  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour 
the  Countess  was  on  her  way  to  see  Princess  Anatolie, 
entirely  forgetful  of  the  fact  that  Cecilia  would  be  quite 
alone  when  Guido  came  at  ten  o'clock. 

Cecilia  sat  quite  still  in  the  drawing-room  waiting 
for  him.  She  was  very  tired  and  pale,  and  her  eyes 
smarted  for  want  of  sleep,  but  her  courage  was  not 
likely  to  fail  her.  She  only  wished  that  all  might  be 
over  soon,  as  condemned  men  do  when  they  are  waiting 
for  execution. 

She  sat  still  a  long  time  and  she  heard  the  little 
French  clock  on  her  mother's  writing  table  in  the 
boudoir  strike  its  soft  chimes  at  the  third  quarter,  and 
then  ring  ten  strokes  at  the  full  hour.  She  listened 
anxiously  for  the  servant's  step  beyond  the  door,  and 
now  and  then  she  caught  her  breath  a  little  when  she 
thought  she  heard  a  sound.  It  was  twenty  minutes 
past  ten  when,  the  door  opened.  She  expected  the  man 
to  stand  still,  and  announce  Guido,  and  she  looked 
away;  but  the  footsteps  came  nearer  and  nearer  and 
stopped  beside  her.  The  man  held  out  a  small  salver 
on  which  lay  a  note  addressed  in  Guido's  hand.  It  was 
like  a  reprieve  after  the  long  tension,  for  something 
must  have  happened  to  prevent  him  from  coming,  some- 


A  STOBY  OF  MODERN  ROME  277 

thing  unexpected,  but  welcome,  though  she  would  not 
own  it. 

In  answer  to  her  question,  the  man  said  that  the 
messenger  had  gone  away,  and  he  left  the  room.  She 
tore  the  envelope  with  trembling  fingers. 

Guido  was  ill.  That  was  the  substance  of  the  note. 
He  had  felt  ill  when  he  awoke  early  in  the  morning, 
but  had  thought  it  nothing  serious,  though  he  was  very 
uncomfortable.  Unknown  to  him,  his  man  had  sent  for 
a  doctor,  who  had  come  half  an  hour  ago,  after  Cecilia's 
message  had  been  received  and  answered.  The  doctor 
had  found  him  with  high  fever,  and  thought  it  was  a 
sharp  attack  of  influenza ;  at  all  events  he  had  ordered 
Guido  to  stay  in  bed,  and  gave  him  little  hope  of  going 
out  for  several  days. 

The  note  dropped  on  Cecilia's  knees  before  she  had 
read  the  words  of  loving  regret  with  which  it  closed, 
and  she  found  herself  wondering  whether  Lamberti 
would  have  been  hindered  from  coming  by  a  mere 
touch  of  fever,  under  the  same  circumstances.  But 
she  would  not  allow  herself  to  dwell  on  that  long,  for 
it  gave  her  pleasure  to  think  of  Lamberti,  and  all  such 
pleasure  she  intended  to  deny  herself.  It  was  quite 
bad  enough  to  know  that  she  loved  him  with  all  her 
heart.     She  went  back  to  her  own  room. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  write  to  Guido 
at  once,  for  she  would  not  allow  the  day  to  pass  with- 
out telling  him  what  she  meant  to  do.  She  sat  down 
and  wrote  as  well  as  she  could,  weighing  each  sentence, 
not  out  of  caution,  but  in  fear  lest  she  should  not  make 


278  CECILIA 

it  clear  that  she  was  altogether  to  blame  for  the  mistake 
she  had  made,  and  meant  to  bear  all  the  consequences 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  She  was  truly  and  sincerely 
penitent,  and  asked  his  forgiveness  with  touching  hu- 
milit3^  She  did  not  mention  Lamberti,  but  she  con- 
fessed frankly  that  since  she  had  been  in  Rome  she  had 
begun  to  love  another  man,  as  she  ought  to  have  loved 
Guido,  a  man  whom  she  rarely  saw,  and  who  had  never 
shown  the  least  inclination  to  make  love  to  her. 

That  was  the  substance  of  what  she  wrote.  She  read 
the  words  over,  to  be  sure  that  they  said  what  she 
meant,  and  she  told  Petersen  to  send  a  man  at  once 
with  the  letter.  There  was  no  answer,  he  was  not  to 
wait.  She  gave  the  order  rather  hurriedly,  for  she 
wished  her  decision  to  become  irrevocable  as  soon  as 
possible.  It  was  a  physical  relief,  but  not  a  mental 
one,  to  feel  that  it  was  done  and  that  she  could  never 
recall  the  fatal  words.  After  reading  such  a  letter 
there  could  be  nothing  for  Guido  to  do  but  to  accept 
the  situation  and  tell  his  friends  that  she  had  broken 
the  engagement.  As  for  the  immediate  effect  it  might 
have  on  him,  she  did  not  even  take  his  slight  illness 
into  consideration.  The  fact  that  he  could  not  come 
and  see  her  might  even  make  it  easier  for  him  to  bear 
the  blow.  Of  course,  if  he  came,  she  should  be  obliged 
to  receive  him,  but  she  hoped  that  he  would  not.  It 
would  hurt  her  to  see  how  much  he  was  hurt,  and  she 
was  suffering  enough  already.  In  time  she  trusted  that 
he  and  she  might  be  good  friends,  as  young  girls  have 
an  unreasonable  inclination  to  hope  in  such  cases. 


A   STORY  OP  MODERN  ROME  279 

When  the  Countess  came  back  from  her  visit  to  the 
Princess  Anatolie  she  was  a  little  flushed,  and  there 
was  a  hard  look  in  her  face  which  Cecilia  had  never 
seen  before,  and  which  made  her  expect  trouble.  To 
her  surprise,  her  mother  kissed  her  affectionately  on 
both  cheeks. 

"That  old  woman  is  a  harpy,"  she  said,  as  she  left 
the  room. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

GuiDO  took  Cecilia's  letter  with  a  smile  of  pleasure 
when  his  man  brought  it  to  him,  and,  as  he  felt  its 
thickness  between  his  fingers,  the  delightful  anticipa- 
tion of  reading  it  alone  was  already  a  real  happiness. 
She  was  distressed  and  anxious  for  him,  he  was  sure, 
and  perhaps  in  saying  so  she  had  found  some  expression 
less  formal  than  those  she  generally,  used  when  she 
talked  with  him  and  assured  him  that  she  really  liked 
him  very  much. 

"You  may  go,"  he  said  to  his  servant.  "I  need 
nothing  more,  thank  you." 

He  was  in  bed,  propped  up  by  three  or  four  pillows, 
and  his  face  was  unnaturally  flushed  and  already  looked 
thin.  A  new  book  of  memoirs,  half  cut,  and  with  the 
paper-knife  between  the  leaves,  lay  on  the  arras  coun- 
terpane, in  the  middle  of  which  royal  armorial  bearings 
with  crown  and  sceptre  were  represented  in  the  fat  arms 
of  smiling  cherubs.  The  head  of  the  carved  bed  was 
towards  the  windows  of  the  wide  room,  so  that  the  light 
fell  from  behind;  for  Guido  was  an  indolent  man,  and 
often  lay  reading  for  an  hour  before  he  got  up.  On 
the  small  table  beside  him  stood  a  heavy  Venetian 
tumbler  of  the  eighteenth  century,  ornamented  with 
gold  designs.      A  cigarette-case  lay  beside  it.     The 

280 


A   STORY  OF  MODERN  ROME  281 

carpet  of  the  room  had  been  taken  up  for  the  summer, 
and  the  floor  was  of  dark  red  tiles,  waxed  and  immacu- 
late. In  a  modest  way,  and  though  he  was  compara- 
tively a  poor  man,  Guido  had  always  managed  to  have 
what  he  wanted  in  the  way  of  surroundings. 

He  looked  at  the  address  on  the  note,  prolonging  his 
anticipation  as  much  as  possible.  He  recognised  the 
neat  French  envelope  as  one  of  those  the  Countess 
always  had  on  her  table  in  a  stamped  leather  paper- 
rack.  He  felt  it  again,  and  was  sure  that  it  contained 
at  least  four  sheets.  It  was  good  of  her  to  write  so 
much,  and  he  had  not  really  expected  anything.  He 
forgot  that  his  head  was  aching,  that  he  had  a  tiresome 
pain  in  his  bones,  and  could  feel  the  fever  pulse  beat- 
ing in  his  temples. 

He  glanced  at  the  door,  and  then  raised  the  letter 
to  his  dry  lips,  with  a  look  of  boyish  pleasure.  Five 
minutes  later  the  crumpled  pages  were  crushed  in  his 
straining  fingers,  and  he  lay  twisted  to  one  side,  his 
face  to  the  wall  and  half  buried  in  the  pillow.  The 
grief  of  his  life  had  come  upon  him  unawares,  and  he 
was  not  able  to  bear  it.  Even  if  he  had  not  been  alone, 
he  could  not  have  hidden  what  he  felt  then. 

After  a  long  time  he  got  up  and  softly  locked  the 
door.  He  felt  very  dizzy  as  he  came  and  lay  down 
again.  One  of  the  crumpled  sheets  of  Cecilia's  letter 
had  fallen  to  the  floor,  the  rest  lay  on  the  bed  beside 
him  and  under  him. 

He  lay  still,  and  when  he  shut  his  eyes  he  saw  red 
waves  coming  and  going,  for  the  fever  was  high,  and 


282  CECILIA 

the  blood  beat  up  under  his  ears  as  if  the  arteries  must 
burst. 

In  an  hour  his  man  knocked  at  the  door,  and  almost 
at  the  same  instant  turned  the  handle,  for  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  be  admitted  at  once. 

"Go  away!"  cried  Guido,  in  a  hoarse  voice  that 
stuck  in  his  throat. 

The  servant's  footsteps  echoed  in  the  corridor,  and 
there  was  silence  again,  and  time  passed.  Then  the 
knock  was  repeated,  very  discreetly  and  with  no  attempt 
to  turn  the  handle.     Guido  answered  with  an  oath. 

But  his  man  was  not  satisfied  this  time,  and  he  stood 
still  outside,  with  a  puzzled  expression.  He  had  never 
heard  Guido  swear  at  any  one,  in  all  the  years  of  his 
service,  much  less  at  himself.  His  master  was  either 
in  a  delirium,  or  something  very  grave  had  happened 
which  he  had  learned  by  the  letter.  The  doctor  had 
said  that  he  was  not  dangerously  ill,  so  it  was  not  likely 
that  he  should  be  already  raving  with  the  fever.  The 
man  went  softly  away  to  his  pantry,  where  the  telephone 
was,  shutting  each  door  carefully  behind  him.  There 
was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  inform  Lamberti  at  once, 
if  he  could  be  found. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  before  he  got  the  message, 
on  coming  home  from  a  long  day's  work  at  the  Minis- 
try of  War.  He  had  not  breakfasted  that  day,  for  he 
had  been  unexpectedly  sent  for  in  the  morning  and  had 
been  kept  at  the  Ministry  without  a  moment's  respite. 
Without  going  to  his  room  he  ran  down  the  stairs 
again  and  hailed  the  first  cab  he  met  as  he  hurried 
towards  the  Palazzo  Farnese. 


A   STOEY   OF   MODERlsr   BOMB  283 

The  bedroom  door  was  still  locked,  but  he  spoke  to 
Guido  through  it,  in  answer  to  the  rough  order  to  go 
away  which  followed  his  first  knock.  There  was  no 
reply. 

"Please  let  me  in,"  Lamberti  said  quietly.  "I  want 
very  much  to  see  you." 

Something  like  a  growl  came  from  the  room,  and 
presently  there  was  a  sound  of  slippers  on  the  smooth 
tiles,  coming  nearer.  The  key  turned  and  the  door 
was  opened  a  little. 

"What  is  it?"  Guido  asked,  in  a  voice  unlike  his 
own. 

"I  heard  you  were  ill,  and  I  have  come  to  see  you." 

Lamberti  spoke  gently  and  steadily,  but  he  was 
shocked  by  Guido's  appearance,  as  the  latter  stood 
before  him  in  his  loose  silk  garments,  looking  gaunt 
and  wild.  There  were  great  rings  round  his  eyes,  his 
face  was  haggard  and  drawn,  and  his  cheek-bones  were 
flushed  with  the  fever.  He  looked  much  more  ill  than 
he  really  was,  so  far  as  his  body  was  concerned. 

"  Well,  come  in,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's  hesitation. 

As  soon  as  Lamberti  had  entered  Guido  locked  the 
door  again  to  keep  his  servant  out. 

"I  suppose  you  had  better  be  the  first  to  know,"  he 
said  hoarsely,  as  he  recrossed  the  room  with  unsteady 
steps. 

He  sat  down  upon  the  edge  of  his  bed,  supporting 
himself  with  his  hands  on  each  side,  his  head  a  little 
bent. 

"What  has  happened?"  Lamberti  asked,  sitting  on 


284  CECILIA 

the  nearest  chair  and  watching  him.  "  Has  your  aunt 
been  troubling  you  again?" 

"No.  It  is  worse  than  that."  Guido  paused,  and 
his  head  sank  lower.  "The  Contessina  has  changed 
her  mind,"  he  managed  to  say  clearly  enough  to  be 
understood. 

Lamberti  started  and  leaned  forward. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  she  has  thrown  you  over?  " 

"Yes." 

A  dead  silence  followed.  Then  Guido  threw  himself 
on  the  bed  again  and  turned  his  face  away. 

"Say  something,  man,"  he  cried,  almost  angrily. 

The  afternoon  light  streamed  through  the  closed 
blinds  and  fell  on  the  crumpled  sheet  of  the  letter  that 
lay  at  Lamberti 's  feet.  He  did  not  know  what  he  saw 
as  he  stared  down  at  it,  and  he  would  have  cut  off  his 
hand  rather  than  pry  into  any  one's  letters,  but  four 
words  had  photographed  themselves  upon  his  brain 
before  he  had  realised  their  meaning,  or  even  that  he 
had  seen  them. 

"I  love  another  man." 

Those  were  the  words,  and  he  had  never  seen  the 
handwriting,  but  he  knew  that  Cecilia  had  written 
them.  Guido's  cry  for  some  sort  of  consolation  was 
still  ringing  in  his  ears. 

"It  is  impossible,"  he  said,  in  a  dull  voice.  "She 
cannot  break  off  such  an  engagement." 

"  She  has,"  Guido  answered,  still  looking  away.  "It 
is  done.  She  has  written  to  say  that  she  will  never 
marry  me." 


A   STORY   OF  MODEEK  KOME  285 

"Why?  "  Lamberti  asked  mechanically. 

"  Because  —  "  Guido  stopped  short.  "  That  is  her 
secret.     Unless  she  chooses  to  tell  you  herself." 

Lamberti  knew  the  secret  already,  but  he  would  not 
pain  Guido  by  saying  so.  The  four  words  he  had  read 
had  explained  enough,  though  he  had  not  the  slightest 
clew  to  the  name  of  the  man  concerned,  and  his  anger 
was  rising  quietly,  as  it  did  when  he  was  going  to  be 
dangerous.  He  loved  Cecilia  much  and  unreasoningly, 
yet  so  long  as  his  friend  had  stood  between  her  and  him- 
self he  had  been  strong  enough  not  to  be  jealous  of  him; 
but  he  was  under  no  obligation  to  that  other  man,  and 
now  he  wished  that  he  had  him  in  his  hands.  More- 
over, his  anger  was  against  the  girl,  too. 

"It  is  outrageous,"  he  said,  at  last,  with  a  conviction 
that  comforted  Guido  a  little.  "It  is  perfectly  abomi- 
nable !     What  shall  you  do  ?  " 

"I  can  do  nothing,  of  course." 

Guido  tossed  on  his  pillows,  turned  his  head,  and 
stared  at  Lamberti,  hoping  to  be  contradicted. 

"It  is  of  no  use  to  go  to  bed  because  a  woman  is 
faithless,"  answered  Lamberti  rather  savagely.  Guido 
almost  laughed. 

"I  am  ill,"  he  said.  "I  can  hardly  stand.  She  tele- 
phoned to  me  to  go  and  see  her,  but  I  could  not,  and  so 
she  wrote  what  she  had  to  say.  It  is  just  as  well.  I 
am  glad  she  cannot  see  me  just  now." 

"I  wish  she  could,"  answered  Lamberti,  closing  his 
teeth  on  the  words  sharply.  "But  you  will  see  her, 
will  you  notr"  he  asked,  after  a  pause.     "You  will 


286  CECILIA 

not  accept  sucli  a  dismissal  without  telling  her  what 
you  think  of  her?  " 

'^Why  should  I  tell  her  anything?  If  I  have  not 
succeeded  in  making  her  love  me  yet,  I  shall  never 
succeed  at  all!  It  is  better  to  bear  it  as  if  I  had  never 
expected  anything  else." 

"  Is  there  any  reason  why  a  woman  should  be  allowed 
to  do  with  impunity  what  one  man  would  shoot  another 
for  doing?"  asked  Lamberti,  roughly.  "She  has 
changed  her  mind  once,  she  can  be  made  to  change  it 
again." 

The  more  he  thought  of  what  had  happened  the  angrier 
he  grew,  and  his  jealousy  against  the  unknown  man 
who  had  caused  the  trouble  was  boiling  up. 

Guido  caught  at  the  straw  like  a  drowning  man,  and 
raised  himself  on  his  elbow. 

"Do  you  really  think  that  she  may  change  her  mind? 
That  this  is  only  a  caprice?  " 

"I  should  not  wonder.  All  women  have  caprices 
now  and  then.  It  is  a  fit  of  conscience.  She  is  not 
quite  sure  that  she  likes  you  enough  to  marry  you,  and 
you  have  said  something  that  jarred  on  her,  perhaps. 
If  you  had  been  able  to  go  and  see  her  this  morning, 
she  would  have  begun  by  being  very  brave,  but  in  five 
minutes  she  would  have  been  as  ready  to  marry  you  as 
ever.  I  will  wager  anything  that  when  she  had  written 
that  letter  she  sent  it  off  as  soon  as  possible  for  fear 
that  she  should  not  send  it  at  all !  " 

"What  do  you  advise  me  to  do?"  asked  Guido,  his 
hopes  rising.  "  I  believe  you  understand  women  better 
than  I  do,  after  all!  " 


A   STOBY  OF  MODEEN  EOME  '         287 

"They  are  only  human  animals,  like  ourselves," 
Lamberti  answered  carelessly.  "The  chief  difference 
is  that  they  do  all  the  things  that  we  are  sometimes 
inclined  to  do,  but  should  be  ashamed  of  doing." 

"I  daresay.     But  I  want  your  advice." 

"  Go  and  tell  her  that  she  has  made  a  mistake,  that 
she  cannot  possibly  be  in  earnest,  but  that  if  she  does 
not  feel  that  she  can  marry  you  in  a  fortnight,  she  can 
put  off  the  wedding  till  the  autumn.  It  is  quite  simple. 
It  has  all  been  rather  sudden,  from  the  first,  and  it  is 
much  better  that  the  engagement  should  go  on  a  little 
longer." 

"That  is  reasonable,"  Guido  answered,  growing 
calmer  every  moment.  "  I  wish  I  could  go  to  her  at 
once." 

"I  suppose  you  cannot,"  said  Lamberti,  looking  at 
him  rather  curiously. 

He  remembered  that  he  had  once  dragged  himself  five 
miles  with  a  bad  spear- wound  in  his  leg,  to  take  news 
to  a  handful  of  men  in  danger,  but  he  supposed  that 
Guido  was  differently  organised.  He  did  not  like  him 
the  less. 

"No!  "  Guido  answered.  "The  fever  makes  me  so 
giddy  that  I  can  hardly  stand." 

He  put  out  his  hand  for  the  tumbler  on  the  table, 
but  it  was  empty. 

"Lamberti!  "  he  said. 

"Yes,  I  will  get  you  some  water  at  once,"  the  other 
answered,  rising  to  his  feet. 

"No,"  Guido  said.  "Never  mind  that,  I  will  ring 
presently.     Will  you  do  something  for  me?  " 


288  CECILIA 

"Of  course." 

"  Will  you  speak  to  her  for  me  ?  " 

Lambert!  was  standing  by  the  bedside,  and  he  saw 
the  serious  and  almost  timid  look  in  his  friend's  eyes. 
But  he  had  not  expected  the  request,  and  he  hesitated 
a  moment. 

"You  would  rather  not,"  said  Guido,  disappointed. 
"I  suppose  I  must  wait  till  I  am  well.  Only  it  may 
be  too  late  then.  She  will  tell  every  one  that  she  has 
broken  off  the  engagement." 

"You  misunderstood  me,"  Lamberti  said  calmly,  for 
he  had  found  time  to  think  while  Guido  was  speaking. 
"I  will  see  her  at  once." 

It  had  not  been  easy  to  say,  for  he  knew  what  it 
meant. 

"Thank  you,"  Guido  murmured.  "Thank  you, 
thank  you !  "  he  repeated  with  a  profound  sense  of 
relief,  as  his  head  sank  back  on  the  pillow. 

"Will  it  do  you  any  harm  if  I  smoke?"  asked  Lam- 
berti, looking  at  a  cigar  he  had  taken  from  his  pocket. 

"No.  I  wish  you  would.  I  cannot  even  smoke  a 
cigarette  to-day.     It  tastes  like  bad  hay." 

There  is  a  hideous  triviality  about  the  things  people 
say  at  important  moments  in  their  lives.  But  Lam- 
berti was  not  listening,  and  he  lit  his  cigar  thought- 
fully, without  answering.  Then  he  went  to  the  window 
and  looked  down  through  the  blinds  in  silence,  pon- 
dering on  what  was  before  him. 

It  was  certainly  the  place  of  a  friend  in  such  a  case 
to  accept  the  position  Guido  was  thrusting  upon  him, 


A   STOHY  OF  MODERN  ROME  289 

and  from  the  first  Lamberti  had  not  meant  to  refuse. 
He  had  a  strong  sense  of  man's  individual  right  to  get 
what  he  wanted  for  himself  without  great  regard  for 
the  feelings  of  others,  and  he  was  quite  sure  that  he 
would  not  have  done  for  his  own  brother  what  he  was 
about  to  do  for  Guido.  It  is  even  possible  that  he 
would  not  have  been  so  ready  to  do  it  for  Guido  him- 
self if  he  had  not  accidentally  seen  those  four  words  of 
Cecilia's  letter.  The  knowledge  of  her  secret  had  at 
once  determined  the  direction  of  his  impulses.  For 
himself  he  hoped  nothing,  but  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  that  if  Cecilia  would  not  marry  Guido  she  should 
by  no  means  marry  any  other  man  living,  and  he  was 
fully  determined  to  make  her  confess  her  passing  fancy 
for  the  unknown  one,  in  order  that  he  might  have  the 
right  to  reproach  her  with  it.  He  even  hoped  that  he 
could  find  out  the  man's  name,  and,  as  he  was  of  a  vio- 
lent disposition,  he  at  once  planned  vengeance  to  be 
wreaked  upon  him.  He  turned  from  the  window  at  last, 
and  blew  a  cloud  of  grey  smoke  into  the  quiet  room. 

"I  will  send  a  message  now,"  he  said,  "and  I  will 
go  myself  this  evening.  They  can  hardly  be  dining 
out." 

"No.  They  are  at  home.  I  was  to  have  dined  with 
them." 

Guide's  voice  was  faint,  but  he  was  calm  now. 
Lamberti  unlocked  the  door  and  opened  it.  The  man 
servant  was  just  coming  towards  it  followed  by  the 
doctor. 

The  latter  found  Guido  worse  than  when  he  had  seen 


290  CECILIA 

him  in  the  morning.  He  said  it  was  what  he  had  ex- 
pected, a  sharp  attack  of  influenza,  and  that  Guide 
must  not  think  of  leaving  his  bed  till  the  fever  had  dis- 
appeared. He  dilated  a  little  upon  the  probable  con- 
sequences of  any  exposure  to  the  outer  air,  even  in 
summer.  No  one  could  ever  tell  what  the  influenza 
might  leave  behind  it,  and  it  was  much  safer  to  be 
patient. 

"You  see,"  said  Guido  to  Lamberti,  when  the  phy- 
sician was  gone.  "It  will  be  quite  impossible  for  me 
to  go  out  to-morrow,  or  for  several  days." 

"Quite,"  Lamberti  answered,  looking  for  his  straw 
hat. 


CHAPTER  XX 

Lambbrti  dined  at  home  that  evening,  and  soon 
after  nine  o'clock  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  Palazzo 
Massimo.  Though  the  evening  was  hot  and  close  he 
walked  there,  for  it  was  easier  to  think  on  his  feet  than 
leaning  back  in  a  cab.  His  normal  condition  was  one 
of  action  and  not  of  reflection. 

His  thoughts  also  took  an  active  dramatic  shape. 
He  did  not  try  to  bind  future  events  together  in  a 
connected  sequence  leading  to  a  result;  on  the  con- 
trary, he  seemed  to  hear  the  very  words  he  would  soon 
be  speaking,  and  Cecilia  Palladio's  answers  to  them; 
he  saw  her  face  and  noted  her  expression,  and  the 
interview  grew  violent  by  degrees  till  he  felt  the  in- 
ward coolness  stealing  through  him  which  he  had  often 
known  in  fight. 

He  had  written  a  note  to  Countess  Fortiguerra  which 
he  had  left  at  her  door  on  his  way  home.  He  had  ex- 
plained that  Guido,  being  too  ill  to  move,  had  begged 
him  to  speak  to  the  Contessina,  and  he  expressed  the 
hope  that  he  might  be  allowed  to  see  the  young  lady 
for  a  few  minutes  alone  that  evening,  in  the  capacity 
of  the  sick  man's  representative  and  trusted  friend. 

Such  a  request  could  hardly  be  refused,  and  the 
Countess   had   always  felt   that   Lamberti  was  one   of 

291 


292  CECILIA 

those  exceptional  men  in  whom  one  may  safely  believe, 
even  without  knowing  them  well.  She  said  that  Cecilia 
had  better  see  him  when  he  came.  She  herself  had 
letters  to  write  and  would  sit  in  the  boudoir. 

It  was  the  last  thing  Cecilia  had  expected,  and  the 
mere  thought  was  like  breaking  the  promise  she  had 
made  to  herself,  never  to  see  Lamberti  again ;  yet  she 
realised  that  it  was  impossible  to  avoid  the  meeting. 
The  course  she  had  taken  was  so  extraordinary  that 
she  felt  bound  to  give  Guido  a  chance  to  answer  her 
letter  in  any  way  he  could.  In  the  afternoon  her 
mother  had  exhausted  every  argument  in  trying  to 
make  her  revoke  her  decision.  She  did  not  love 
Guido ;  that  was  her  only  reply ;  but  she  felt  that  it 
ought  to  be  sufficient,  and  she  bowed  her  head  meekly 
when  the  Countess  grew  angry  and  told  her  that  she 
should  have  found  that  out  long  ago.  Yes,  she  an- 
swered, it  was  all  her  fault,  she  ought  to  have  known, 
she  would  bear  all  the  blame,  she  would  tell  her  friends 
that  she  had  broken  off  the  engagement,  she  would  do 
everything  that  could  be  required  of  her.  But  she 
would  not  marry  Guido  d'Este. 

The  Countess  could  say  nothing  more.  On  her  side 
she  was  reticent  for  once  in  her  life,  and  told  nothing 
of  her  own  interview  with  Princess  Anatolie.  Whether 
something  had  been  said  which  the  mother  thought  un- 
fit for  her  daughter's  ears,  or  whether  the  Princess's 
words  had  been  of  a  nature  to  hurt  Cecilia's  pride,  the 
young  girl  could  not  guess ;  and  though  her  maidenly 
instinct  told  her  to  accept  her  mother's  silence  without 


A   STOBY  OF  MODERN  ROME  293 

question,  if  it  proceeded  from  the  first  cause,  she  could 
not  help  fearing  that  the  Countess  had  done  or  said 
something  hopelessly  tactless  which  might  produce  dis- 
agreeable consequences,  or  might  even  do  some  harm 
to  Guido. 

Her  heart  was  beating  so  fast  when  Lamberti  entered 
the  drawing-room  that  she  wondered  how  she  should 
find  breath  to  speak  to  him,  and  she  did  not  raise  her 
eyes  again  after  she  had  seen  his  face  at  the  door,  till 
he  was  close  to  her,  and  had  bowed  without  holding  out 
his  hand. 

"  I  hope  you  got  my  note,"  he  said  to  her  mother. 
"  D'Este  is  ill,  and  has  given  me  a  verbal  message  for 
your  daughter." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Countess.  "  I  will  go  into  the  next 
room  and  write  my  letters." 

She  was  gone  and  the  two  stood  opposite  each  other 
in  momentary  silence.  Lamberti's  voice  had  been  for- 
mal, and  his  face  was  almost  expressionless. 

"  Where  will  you  sit  ?  "  he  asked.  "  It  will  take  some 
time  to  tell  you  all  that  he  wishes  me  to  say." 

Cecilia  led  the  way  to  the  little  sofa  in  the  corner 
farthest  from  the  boudoir.  It  was  there  that  Guido 
had  asked  her  to  be  his  wife,  and  it  was  there  that  she 
had  waited  for  him  a  few  hours  ago  to  tell  him  that  she 
could  not  marry  him.  She  took  her  accustomed  place, 
but  Lamberti  drew  forward  a  light  chair  and  sat  down 
facing  her.  He  felt  that  he  got  an  advantage  by  the 
position,  and  that  to  a  small  extent  it  placed  him  out- 
side of  her  personal  atmosphere.     At  such  a  moment 


294  CECILIA 

he  could  not  afford  to  neglect  the  least  circumstance 
which  might  help  him.  As  for  what  he  should  say,  he 
had  thought  of  many  speeches  while  he  was  in  the 
street,  but  he  did  not  remember  any  of  them  now,  nor 
even  that  he  had  seemed  to  hear  himself  speaking 
them. 

"Why  did  you  write  that  letter?'*  he  asked,  after 
a  moment's  pause. 

Cecilia  looked  up  quickly,  surprised  by  the  direct 
question,  and  then  gazed  into  his  face  in  silence.  She 
had  confessed  to  herself  that  she  loved  him,  but  she  had 
not  known  how  much,  nor  what  it  would  mean  to  sit  so 
near  him  and  hear  him  asking  the  question  that  had  only 
one  answer.  His  eyes  were  steady  and  brave,  when  she 
looked  at  them,  but  not  so  hard  as  she  had  expected.  In 
earlier  days  she  had  always  felt  that  they  could  command 
her  and  even  send  her  to  sleep  if  he  chose,  but  she  did 
not  feel  that  now.  The  question  had  been  asked  suddenly 
and  directly,  but  not  harshly.     She  did  not  answer  it. 

"Did  Guido  show  you  my  letter?"  she  asked  in  a  low 
voice. 

But  she  was  sure  of  the  reply  before  it  came. 

"  No.  He  told  me  that  you  broke  off  your  engagement 
with  him  very  suddenly.  I  suppose  you  have  done  so 
because  you  think  you  do  not  care  for  him  enough  to 
marry  him,  but  he  did  not  tell  me  so.     Is  that  it  ?  " 

Cecilia  nodded  quickly,  folded  her  hands  nervously 
upon  her  knees,  and  looked  across  the  room. 

"  Yes, "  she  said.     "  That  is  it.     I  do  not  love  him.  " 

"  Yet  you  like  him  very  much,"  Lamberti  answered. 


A   STOKY  OF   MODEEN  EOME  295 

"I  have  often  seen  you  together,  and  I  am  sure  you 
do." 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  him.  If  I  had  not  been  foolish, 
he  might  always  have  been  my  best  friend." 

"  I  do  not  think  you  were  foolish.  You  could  hardly 
do  better  than  marry  your  best  friend,  I  think.  He  is 
mine,  and  I  know  what  his  friendship  is  worth.  You 
will  find  out,  as  I  have,  that  if  he  is  sometimes  indolent 
and  slow  to  make  up  his  mind,  he  never  changes  after- 
wards. You  may  be  separated  from  him  for  a  year  or 
two,  but  you  will  find  him  always  the  same  when  you 
meet  him  again,  always  gentle,  always  true,  always  the 
most  honourable  of  men." 

"  He  is  that,  and  more,"  Cecilia  said  softly.  "  I  like 
everything  about  him." 

"  And  he  lov^s  you,"  Lamberti  continued.  "  He 
loves  you  as  men  do  not  often  love  the  women  they 
marry,  and  as  you,  with  your  fortune,  may  never  be  loved 
again." 

"  I  know  it.     I  feel  it.     It  makes  it  all  the  harder." 

"  But  you  thought  you  loved  him,  I  am  sure.  You 
would  not  have  accepted  him  otherwise." 

"  Yes.  Thank  you  for  believing  that  much  of  me," 
Cecilia  answered  humbly.     "  I  thought  I  loved  him." 

"  You  sent  for  him  this  morning,  because  you  had 
suddenly  persuaded  yourself  that  you  had  made  a  great 
mistake.  When  you  heard  that  he  could  not  come,  you 
wrote  the  letter,  and  when  it  was  written  you  sent  it  off 
as  fast  as  you  could,  for  fear  that  you  would  not  send  it 
at  all.     Is  that  true  ?  " 


296  CECILIA 

"  Yes.  That  is  just  what  happened.  How  did  you 
know?'' 

"  Listen  to  me,  please,  for  d'Este's  sake.  If  you  had 
not  felt  that  you  were  perhaps  making  another  mistake, 
should  you  have  been  in  such  a  hurry  to  send  the 
letter?" 

Cecilia  hesitated  an  instant. 

"  It  was  a  hard  thing  to  do.  That  is  why  I  made 
haste  to  get  it  over.  I  knew  it  would  hurt  him,  but  I 
thought  it  was  wrong  to  deceive  him  for  even  a  few 
hours,  after  I  had  understood  myself." 

"  It  would  have  been  kinder  to  wait  until  you  could 
see  him,  and  break  it  gently  to  him.  He  was  ill  when 
he  got  your  letter,  and  it  made  him  worse." 

"  How  is  he  ?  "  Cecilia  asked  quietly,  a  little  ashamed 
of  not  having  enquired  already.  "It  is  nothing  very 
serious,  is  it?     Only  a  little  influenza,  he  said." 

"  He  is  not  dangerously  ill,  but  he  had  a  good  deal 
of  fever  this  afternoon.  You  will  not  see  him  for  a 
week,  I  fancy.  That  is  the  reason  why  I  am  here.  I 
want  you  to  postpone  your  decision,  at  least  until  he 
is  well  and  you  have  talked  with  him." 

"  But  I  have  decided  already.  I  shall  take  all  the 
blame.     I  will  tell  my  friends  that  it  is  all  my  fault." 

''Is  that  the  only  answer  you  can  give  me  for  him?" 

"Yes.  What  can  I  say?  I  do  not  love  him.  I 
never  shall." 

"What  if  something  happens?" 

"What?" 

"  Suppose  that  I  go  to  him  to-morrow  morning,  and 


A   STORY   OF  MODERN  ROME  297 

tell  him  what  you  say,  and  that  when  I  have  left  him 
there  alone  with  his  servant,  as  I  must  in  the  course  of 
the  day,  he  locks  the  door,  and  in  a  fit  of  despair  puts 
a  bullet  through  his  head?     What  then?" 

Cecilia  leaned  forward,  wide-eyed  and  frightened. 

'^  You  do  not  really  believe  that  he  would  kill  him- 
self ? "  she  cried  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  think  it  is  more  than  likely,"  Lamberti  answered 
quietly  enough.  "D'Este  is  the  most  good-hearted, 
charitable,  honourable  fellow  in  the  world,  but  he  be- 
lieves in  nothing  beyond  death.  We  differ  about  those 
questions,  and  never  talk  about  them ;  but  he  has  often 
spoken  of  killing  himself  when  he  has  been  depressed. 
I  remember  that  Ave  had  an  argument  about  it  on  the 
very  afternoon  when  we  both  first  met  you." 

"  Was  he  so  unhappy  then  ?  "  Cecilia  asked  with  ner- 
vous interest. 

"  Perhaps.  At  all  events  I  know  that  he  has  a  bad 
habit  of  keeping  a  loaded  revolver  in  the  drawer  of  the 
table  by  his  bed,  in  case  he  should  have  a  fancy  to  go 
out  of  the  world,  and  it  is  very  well  known  that  people 
who  talk  of  suicide,  and  think  of  it  a  great  deal,  often 
end  in  that  way.  When  I  left  him  this  afternoon  I 
gave  him  some  hope  that  you  might  at  least  prolong 
the  engagement  for  a  few  months,  and  give  yourself  a 
chance  to  grow  more  fond  of  him.  If  I  have  to  tell 
him  that  you  flatly  refuse,  I  am  really  afraid  that  it 
may  be  the  end  of  him." 

Cecilia  leaned  back  in  the  sofa  and  closed  her  eyes, 
confronted  by  the  awful  doubt  that  Lamberti  might  be 


m^- 


298  CECILIA 

right.  He  was  certainly  in  earnest,  for  he  was  not  the 
man  to  say  such  a  thing  merely  for  the  sake  of  frighten- 
ing her.     She  could  not  reason  any  more. 

"  Please,  please  do  not  say  that ! "  she  said  piteously, 
but  scarcely  above  her  breath. 

"What  else  can  I  say?  It  is  quite  true.  You  must 
have  some  very  strong  reason  for  refusing  to  reconsider 
your  decision,  since  your  refusal  may  cost  as  much  as 
that." 

"But  men  do  not  kill  themselves  for  love  in  real 
life!" 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  they  do,"  Lamberti  answered.  "  A 
fellow-officer  of  mine  shot  himself  on  board  the  ship  I 
was  last  with  for  exactly  the  same  reason.  He  left  a 
letter  so  that  there  should  be  no  suspicion  that  he  had 
done  it  to  escape  from  any  dishonour." 

"  How  awful  I " 

"  I  repeat  that  you  must  have  a  very  strong  reason 
indeed  for  not  waiting  a  couple  of  months.  In  that 
time  you  may  learn  to  like  Guido  better  —  or  he  may 
learn  to  love  you  less." 

"He  may  change,"  Cecilia  said,  not  resenting  the 
rather  rough  speech ;  "  I  never  shall." 

Lamberti  fixed  his  eyes  on  her. 

"There  is  only  one  reason  that  could  make  you  so 
sure  about  yourself,"  he  said.  "  If  I  thought  you  were 
like  most  women,  I  would  tell  you  that  you  were  heart- 
less, faithless,  and  cruel,  as  well  as  capricious,  and  that 
you  were  risking  a  man's  life  and  soul  for  a  scruple  of 
conscience,  or,  worse  than  that,  for  a  passing  fancy." 


A   STOEY   OP  MODERN  ROME  299 

"  Oh,  please  do  not  say  such  things  of  me ! "  She 
spoke  in  great  distress. 

"I  do  not.  I  know  that  you  are  honest  and  true, 
and  are  trying  to  do  right,  but  that  you  have  made  a 
mistake  which  you  can  mend  if  you  will.  Take  my  ad- 
vice. There  is  only  one  possible  reason  to  account  for 
what  you  have  done.  You  think  that  you  love  some 
other  man  better  than  d'Este." 

Cecilia  started  and  stared  at  him. 

"  You  said  that  Guido  did  not  show  you  my  letter  I " 
She  was  offended  as  well  as  distressed  now. 

"  No ;  he  did  not.  But  I  will  not  pretend  that  I  have 
guessed  your  secret.  As  Guido  lay  on  his  bed  talking 
to  me,  I  was  staring  at  a  crumpled  sheet  of  a  letter  that 
lay  on  the  floor.  Before  I  knew  what  I  was  looking  at 
I  had  read  four  words:  'I  love  another  man.'  When 
I  realised  that  I  ought  not  to  have  seen  even  that 
much,  I  knew,  of  course,  that  it  was  your  writing. 
You  see  how  much  I  know.  All  the  same,  if  you  were 
not  what  I  know  you  are,  I  would  call  you  a  heartless 
flirt  to  your  face." 

Again  he  looked  at  her  steadily,  but  she  said  nothing. 

"If  you  are  not  that,"  he  continued,  "you  never 
loved  Guido  at  all,  but  really  believed  you  did,  because 
you  did  not  know  what  love  was,  and  you  are  sure  that 
you  love  this  other  man  with  all  your  heart." 

Cecilia  was  still  silent,  but  a  delicate  colour  was 
rising  in  her  pale  face. 

"  Has  the  other  ever  made  love  to  you  ?  "  Lamberti 
6isked. 


300  CECILIA 

"  No,  no  —  never !  " 

She  could  not  help  answering  him  and  forgetting 
that  she  might  have  been  offended.  She  loved  him 
beyond  words,  he  did  not  know  it,  and  he  was  uncon- 
sciously asking  her  questions  about  himself. 

''  Is  he  younger  than  Guido  ?  Handsomer  ?  Has  he 
a  great  name  ?     A  great  fortune  ?  " 

"  Are  those  reasons  for  loving  a  man  ?  " 

Cecilia  asked  the  question  reproachfully,  and  as  she 
looked  at  him  and  thought  of  what  he  was,  and  how 
little  she  cared  for  the  things  he  had  spoken  of,  but 
how  wholly  for  the  man  himself,  her  love  for  him  rose 
in  her  face,  against  her  will. 

"  There  must  be  something  about  him  which  makes 
you  prefer  him  to  Guido,"  he  said  obstinately. 

"  Yes.  But  I  do  not  know  what  it  is.  Do  not  ask 
me  about  him." 

"Considering  that  you  are  endangering  the  life  of 
my  dearest  friend  for  him,  I  think  I  have  some  right  to 
speak  of  him." 

She  was  silent,  and  they  faced  each  other  for  several 
seconds  with  very  different  expressions.  She  was  pale 
again,  now,  but  her  eyes  were  full  of  light  and  softness, 
and  there  was  a  very  faint  shadow  of  a  smile  flickering 
about  her  slightly  parted  lips,  as  if  she  saw  a  wonderful 
and  absorbing  sight.  Lamberti's  gaze,  on  the  contrary, 
was  cold  and  hard,  for  he  was  jealous  of  the  unknown 
man  and  angry  at  not  being  able  to  find  out  who  he 
was.  She  did  not  guess  his  jealousy,  indeed,  for  she 
did  not  suspect  what  he  felt;   but  she  knew  that  his 


A   STORY  OF  MODERN  ROME  801 

righteous  anger  on  Guido's  behalf  was  unconsciously 
directed  against  himself. 

"  You  will  never  know  who  he  is,"  she  said  at  last, 
very  gently. 

"  We  shall  all  know,  when  you  marry  him,"  Lamberti 
answered  with  unnecessary  roughness. 

"  No,  I  shall  never  marry  him,"  she  said.  "  I  mean 
never  to  see  him  again.  I  would  not  marry  him,  even 
if  he  should  ever  love  me." 

"Why  not?" 

"  For  Guido's  sake.  I  have  treated  Guido  very  badly, 
though  I  did  not  mean  to  do  it.  If  I  cannot  marry 
Guido,  I  will  never  marry  at  all." 

"  That  is  like  you,"  Lamberti  answered,  and  his  voice 
softened.     "  I  believe  you  are  in  earnest." 

"  With  all  my  heart.  But  promise  me  one  thing, 
please,  on  your  word." 

"Not  till  I  know  whether  I  may." 

"For  his  sake,  not  for  mine.  Stay  with  him.  Do 
not  leave  him  alone  for  a  moment  till  you  are  sure  that 
he  is  safe  and  will  not  try  to  kill  himself.  Will  you 
promise  ?  " 

"  Not  unless  you  will  promise  something,  too." 

"  Do  not  ask  me  to  pretend  that  I  love  him.  I  can- 
not do  it." 

"  Very  well.  You  need  not  pretend  anything.  Let 
me  tell  him  that  you  will  let  your  engagement  continue 
to  all  appearance,  and  that  you  will  see  him,  but  that 
you  put  off  the  wedding  for  the  reasons  you  gave  in 
your  letter.     Let  me  tell  him  that  you  hope  you  may 


802  CECILIA 

yet  care  for  him  enough  to  marry  him.     You  do,  do 
you  not  ? 

"No  I'* 

"At  least  let  me  say  that  you  are  willing  to  wait  a 
few  months,  in  order  to  be  sure  of  yourself.  It  is  the 
only  thing  you  can  do  for  him.  Perhaps  ypu  can 
accustom  him  by  slow  degrees  to  the  idea  that  you 
will  never  marry  him.'* 

"  Perhaps." 

"  In  any  case,  you  ought  to  do  your  best,  and  that  is 
the  best  you  can  do.  See  him  a  few  times  when  he  is 
well  enough,  and  then  leave  Rome.  Tell  him  that  it 
will  be  a  good  thing  to  be  parted  for  a  month  or  two,  and 
that  you  will  write  to  him.  Do  not  destroy  what  hope 
he  may  have,  but  let  it  die  out  by  degrees,  if  it  will." 

Cecilia  hesitated.  After  what  had  passed  between 
them  she  could  hardly  refuse  to  follow  such  good 
advice,  though  it  was  hard  to  go  back  to  anything 
approaching  the  state  of  things  with  which  she  had 
broken  by  her  letter.  But  that  was  only  obstinacy  and 
pride. 

"  Let  it  be  distinctly  understood  that  I  do  not  take 
back  my  letter  at  all,"  she  said.  "  If  I  consent  to  what 
you  ask,  it  is  only  for  Guido's  sake,  and  I  will  only 
admit  that  I  may  be  more  sure  of  myself  in  a  few 
months  than  I  am  now,  though  I  cannot  see  how  that  is 
possible." 

"  It  shall  be  understood  most  distinctly,"  Lamberti 
answered.  "  You  say,  too,  that  you  mean  never  to  see 
this  other  man  again." 


A  STOKY   OF  MODERN  BOMB  803 

"  I  cannot  help  seeing  him  if  I  stay  longer  in  Rome," 
Cecilia  said. 

Lamberti  wondered  who  he  might  be,  with  growing 
hatred  of  him. 

"  If  he  is  an  honourable  man,  and  if  he  had  the  slight- 
est idea  that  he  had  unconsciously  come  between  you 
and  Guido,  he  would  go  away  at  once." 

"  Perhaps  he  could  not,"  Cecilia  suggested. 

'*  That  is  absurd." 

"No.  Take  your  own  case.  You  told  me  not  long 
ago  that  you  were  unfortunately  condemned  to  stay  in 
Rome,  unless  you  gave  up  your  career.  He  might  be 
in  a  very  similar  position.     In  fact,  he  is." 

There  was  something  so  unexpected  in  the  bitter 
little  laugh  that  followed  the  last  words  that  Lamberti 
started.  She  had  kept  her  secret  well,  so  far,  but  she 
had  now  given  him  the  beginning  of  a  clew.  He 
wished,  for  once,  that  he  possessed  the  detective  in- 
stinct, and  could  follow  the  scent.  There  could  not  be 
many  men  in  society  who  were  in  a  position  very  simi- 
lar to  his  own. 

"  I  wish  I  knew  his  name,"  he  said,  only  half  aloud. 

But  she  heard  him,  and  again  she  laughed  a  little 
harshly. 

"  If  I  told  you  who  he  is,  what  would  you  do  to  him  ? 
Go  and  quarrel  with  him  ?  Call  him  out  and  kill  him 
in  a  duel  ?  I  suppose  that  is  what  you  would  do  if  you 
could,  for  Guide's  sake." 

"I  should  like  to  know  his  name,"  Lamberti 
answered. 


304  CECILIA 

"You  never  shall.  You  can  never  find  it  out,  no 
matter  how  ingenious  you  are." 

"  If  I  ever  see  you  together,  I  shall." 

"  How  can  you  be  so  sure  of  that?  " 

"  You  forget  something,"  Lamberti  said.  "  You 
forget  the  odd  coincidences  of  our  dreams,  and  that  I 
have  seen  you  in  them  when  you  were  in  earnest  —  not 
as  you  have  been  with  Guido,  but  as  you  seem  to  be 
about  this  other  man.  I  know  every  look  in  your  eyes, 
every  movement  of  your  lips,  every  tone  of  your  voice. 
Do  you  think  I  should  not  recognise  anything  of  all 
that  in  real  life?" 

"These  were  only  dreams,"  Cecilia  tried  to  say, 
avoiding  his  look.  "I  asked  you  not  to  speak  of 
them." 

"  Do  you  dream  of  him  now  ?  "  Lamberti  asked  the 
question  suddenly. 

"  Not  now  —  no  —  that  is  —  please  do  not  ask  me 
such  questions.     You  have  no  right  to." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.     Perhaps  I  have  not." 

He  was  not  in  the  least  sorry  for  having  spoken,  but 
his  anger  increased  against  the  unknown  man.  She 
had  evidently  dreamt  of  him  at  one  time  or  another,  as 
she  used  to  dream  of  himself. 

"  You  have  such  an  extraordinary  talent  for  dream- 
ing," he  said,  "  that  the  question  seemed  quite  natural. 
I  daresay  you  have  seen  Guido  in  your  visions,  too, 
when  you  believed  that  you  cared  for  him ! " 

"  Never !  "     Cecilia  could  hardly  speak  just  then. 

"Poor   Guido  I     that   was   a    natural   question   too. 


A   STORY  OF  MODERN  ROME  805 

Since  you  used  to  see  a  mere  acquaintance,  like  myself, 
and  fancy  that  you  were  —  " 

"Stopl" 

"  —  that  you  were  talking  familiarly  with  him," 
continued  Lamberti  unmoved,  "it  would  hardly  be 
strange  that  you  should  often  have  seen  Guido  d'Este 
in  the  same  way,  while  you  thought  you  loved  him,  and 
it  is  stranger  that  you  should  not  now  dream  about  a 
man  you  really  love  —  if  you  do  I  " 

"  I  say  that  you  have  no  right  to  talk  in  this  way," 
said  Cecilia. 

"I  have  the  right  to  say  a  great  many  things," 
Lamberti   answered.     "I  have   the   right  to  reproach 

you—" 

"You  said  that  you  believed  me  honest  and  true." 

The  words  checked  his  angry  mood  suddenly. 
He  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes  and  changed  his 
position. 

"  I  do,"  he  said.  "  There  is  no  woman  alive  of 
whom  1  believe  more  good  than  I  do  of  you." 

"  Then  trust  me  a  little,  and  believe,  too,  that  I  am 
suffering  quite  as  much  as  Guido.  I  have  agreed  to 
take  your  advice,  to  obey  you,  since  it  is  that  and 
nothing  else  —  " 

"I  have  no  power  to  give  you  orders.  I  wish  I 
had!" 

"  You  have  right  on  your  side.  That  is  power,  and  I 
obey  you.  You  have  told  me  what  to  do,  and  I  shall 
do  it,  and  be  glad  to  do  it.  But  even  after  what  I  have 
done,  I  have  some  privileges  left.     I  have  a  secret,  and 


306  CECILIA 

I  am  ashamed  of  it,  and  it  can  do  no  good  to  Guido  to 
know  it,  much  less  to  you.  Please  let  me  keep  it  in 
my  own  way." 

"  Yes.  But  if  you  are  afraid  that  I  should  hurt  the 
man,  if  I  knew  his  name,  you  are  mistaken." 

"I  am  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  that,"  Cecilia  an- 
swered, and  the  light  filled  her  eyes  again  as  she  looked 
at  him.  "  You  are  too  just  to  hate  an  innocent  man. 
It  is  not  his  fault  that  I  love  him,  and  he  will  never 
know  it.  He  will  never  guess  that  I  think  him  the 
best,  and  truest,  and  bravest  man  alive,  and  that  he  is 
all  this  world  to  me,  now  and  for  ever!" 

She  spoke  quietly  enough,  but  there  was  a  radiant 
joy  in  her  face  which  Lamberti  never  forgot.  While 
keeping  her  secret,  she  was  telling  him  at  last  to  his 
face  that  she  loved  him,  and  it  was  the  first  time  she  had 
ever  spoken  such  words  out  of  her  dreams.  In  them 
indeed  they  had  been  familiar  to  her  lips,  as  words  like 
them  had  been  to  his. 

He  leaned  forward,  resting  one  elbow  on  his  knee,  and 
his  chin  upon  his  closed  hand,  and  he  looked  at  her  long 
in  silence.  He  envied  her  for  having  been  able  to 
say  aloud  what  she  felt,  under  cover  of  her  secret,  and 
he  longed  to  answer  her,  to  tell  her  that  he  loved  her 
even  better  than  she  loved  that  unknown  man,  to  hear 
himself  say  it  to  her  only  once,  come  what  might.  But 
for  Guido  he  would  have  spoken,  for  as  he  gazed  at  her 
the  instinctive  masculine  conviction  returned  stronger 
than  ever,  that  if  he  chose  he  could  make  her  love  him. 
For  a  moment  he  was  absolutely  sure  of  it,  but  he  only 
sat  still,  looking  at  her. 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN  ROME  307 

"  You  believe  me  now,"  she  said  at  last,  leaning  back 
and  turning  her  eyes  away. 

"  Poor  Guido ! "  he  exclaimed. 

He  knew  indeed  that  there  was  no  longer  any  hope 
for  his  friend. 

"  Yes,"  he  added  thoughtfully.  "  It  was  in  your  eyes 
just  then,  when  you  were  speaking,  just  as  if  that  man 
had  been  there  before  you.  I  shall  know  who  he  is  if  I 
ever  see  you  together.  It  is  understood,  then,"  he  went 
on,  changing  his  tone,  "  I  am  to  tell  him  that  you  wish 
to  put  off  the  marriage  till  you  are  more  sure  of  your- 
self—  that  you  wrote  that  letter  under  an  impulse." 

"  Yes,  that  is  true.  And  you  wish  me  to  try  to  make 
him  understand  by  degrees  that  it  is  all  over,  and  to  go 
away  from  Rome  in  a  few  days,  asking  him  not  to  follow 
me  at  once." 

"  I  think  that  is  the  kindest  thing  you  can  do.  On 
my  part  I  will  give  him  what  hope  I  can  that  you  may 
change  your  mind  again." 

"  You  know  that  I  never  shall." 

"  I  may  hope  what  I  please.  There  is  always  a  possi- 
bility. We  are  human,  after  all.  One  may  hope  against 
conviction.  May  I  see  you  again  to-morrow  to  tell  you 
how  he  takes  your  message  ?  " 

To  his  surprise  Cecilia  hesitated  several  seconds 
before  she  answered. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said  at  last.  "  Or  you  can  write  to 
me  or  to  my  mother,  which  will  save  you  the  trouble 
of  coming  here." 

"  It  is  no  trouble,"  Lamberti  answered  mechanically. 


808  CECILIA 

"  But  of  course  it  is  painful  for  you  to  talk  about  it  all, 
so  unless  something  unexpected  happens  I  will  write  a 
line  to  your  mother  to  say  that  Guido  accepts  your 
decision,  and  to  let  you  know  how  he  is.  If  there  is 
anything  wrong,  I  will  come  in  the  evening." 

"  Thank  you.     That  is  the  best  way." 

"  Good  night."     He  rose  as  he  spoke. 

"  Good  night.  Thank  you."  She  held  out  her  hand 
rather  timidly. 

He  took  it,  and  she  withdrew  it  precipitately,  after 
the  merest  touch.  She  rose  quickly  and  went  towards 
the  door  of  the  boudoir,  calling  to  her  mother  as  she 
walked. 

"  Signor  Lamberti  is  going,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  little  rustle  of  thin  silk  in  the  distance, 
and  the  Countess  appeared  at  the  door  and  came 
forward. 

"Well?"  she  asked,  as  she  met  Lamberti  in  the 
middle  of  the  room. 

"  Your  daughter  has  decided  to  do  what  seems  best 
for  everybody,"  Lamberti  said.  "  She  will  tell  you  all 
about  it.  Let  me  thank  you  for  having  allowed  me  to 
talk  it  over  with  her.     Good  night." 

"  Do  stay  and  have  some  tea !  "  urged  the  Countess, 
and  she  wondered  why  Cecilia,  standing  behind  Lam- 
berti, frowned  and  shook  her  head.  "  Of  course,  if  you 
will  not  stay,"  she  added  hastily,  "  I  will  not  try  to 
keep  you.  Pray  give  my  best  messages  to  Signor 
d'Este,  and  tell  him  how  distressed  I  am,  and  say  — 
but  you  will  know  just  what  to  say,  I  am  sure.  Good 
night." 


A   STORY  OF  MODERN  ROME  809 

Lamberti  bowed  and  shook  hands.  As  he  turned,  he 
met  Cecilia  face  to  face  and  bade  her  good  night  again. 
She  nodded  rather  coldly,  and  then  went  quickly  to 
ring  the  bell  for  the  footman. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

Princess  Anatolie  was  very  angry  when  she  learned 
that  Cecilia  was  breaking  her  engagement,  and  she  said 
things  to  the  poor  Countess  which  she  did  not  regret, 
and  which  hurt  very  much,  because  they  were  said  with 
such  perfect  skill  and  knowledge  of  the  world  that  it 
was  impossible  to  answer  them  and  it  did  not  even  seem 
proper  to  show  any  outward  resentment,  considering 
that  Cecilia's  conduct  was  apparently  indefensible.  As 
it  is  needless  to  say,  the  Princess  appeared  to  regret  the 
circumstance  much  more  for  Cecilia's  sake  than  for 
Guide's.  She  said  that  Guido,  of  course,  would  soon 
get  over  it,  for  all  men  were  perfectly  heartless  in 
reality,  and  could  turn  from  one  woman  to  another  as 
carelessly  as  if  women  were  pictures  in  a  gallery.  She 
really  did  not  think  that  Guido  had  much  more  heart 
than  the  rest  of  his  kind,  and  he  would  soon  be  consoled. 
After  all,  he  could  marry  whom  he  pleased,  and  Cecilia's 
fortune  had  never  been  any  object  to  him.  She,  his 
thoughtful  and  affectionate  aunt,  would  naturally  leave 
him  her  property,  or  a  large  part  of  it.  Guido  was  not 
at  all  to  be  pitied. 

But  Cecilia,  poor  Cecilia !  What  a  life  she  had  before 
her,  sighed  the  Princess,  after  treating  a  man  in  such  a 
way  I     Of  course,  she  could  never  live  in  Rome  after 

310 


A   STOKY   OF   MODERN   BOME  311 

this,  and  as  for  Paris,  she  would  be  no  better  off  there. 
Guido's  friends  and  relations  were  everywhere,  and  none 
of  them  would  ever  forgive  her  for  having  jilted  him. 
Perhaps  England  was  the  only  place  for  her  now.  The 
English  were  a  sordid  people,  consisting  chiefly  of 
shopkeepers,  jockeys,  tyrants,  and  professional  beauties, 
and  as  they  thought  of  nothing  but  money  and  their 
own  advantage,  Cecilia's  fortune  would  insure  her  a 
good  reception  among  them,  even  though  it  was  not 
a  very  large  one.  Not  that  the  girl  was  lacking  in  the 
most  charming  qualities  and  the  most  exceptional  gifts, 
which  would  have  made  her  a  desirable  wife  for  any 
man,  if  only  she  had  not  made  this  fatal  mistake.  Such 
things  stuck  to  a  woman  through  life,  like  a  disgrace, 
though  that  was  a  great  injustice,  because  Cecilia  was 
acting  under  conviction,  poor  girl,  and  believed  she  was 
doing  right !  It  was  most  unfortunate.  The  Princess 
pitied  her  very  much  and  would  always  treat  her  just 
as  if  nothing  had  happened,  if  they  ever  met.  Guido 
would  certainly  behave  in  the  same  way  and  would 
always  be  kind,  though  he  would  naturally  not  seek  her 
society. 

The  Princess  was  very  angry,  and  it  was  not  strange 
that  the  Countess  should  have  come  home  a  little 
flushed  after  the  interview  and  very  unexpectedly  in- 
clined to  be  glad,  after  all,  that  the  engagement  was 
at  an  end.  The  Princess  had  not  said  one  rude  word  to 
her,  but  it  was  quite  clear  that  she  was  furious  at  seeing 
Cecilia's  fortune  slip  from  the  grasp  of  her  nephew.  It 
almost  looked  as  if  she  had  expected  to  get  a  part 


312  CECILIA 

of  it  herself,  though  the  Countess  supposed  that  should 
be  out  of  the  question.  Nevertheless  the  past  question 
of  the  million  which  was  to  have  constituted  Cecilia's 
dowry  began  to  rankle,  and  the  Countess's  instinct  told 
her  that  the  old  lady  had  probably  had  some  interest 
in  the  matter.  Indeed,  the  Princess  had  told  her  that 
Guido  had  considerable  debts,  and  had  vaguely  hinted 
that  she  had  herself  sometimes  helped  him  in  his  diffi- 
culties. Of  the  two,  Guido  was  more  to  be  believed 
than  his  aunt,  but  there  was  a  mysterious  element  in 
the  whole  matter. 

The  Princess  and  Monsieur  Leroy  consulted  the 
spirits  now,  and  she  found  some  consolation  when  she 
was  told  that  she  should  yet  get  back  most  of  the 
money  she  had  lost,  if  she  would  only  trust  herself  to 
her  truest  friend,  who  was  none  other  than  Monsieur 
Leroy  himself.  The  forlorn  little  ghost  of  the  only 
being  she  had  ever  really  loved  in  the  world  was 
made  to  assume  the  character  of  a  financial  adviser, 
and  she  herself  was  led  like  a  lamb  by  the  thread  of 
affection  that  bound  her  to  her  dead  child. 

Monsieur  Leroy  had  not  foreseen  what  was  to  hap- 
pen, but  he  was  not  altogether  at  a  loss,  and  the  first 
step  was  to  insure  the  Princess's  obedience  to  his  will. 
He  did  not  understand  the  nature  of  the  phenomena 
he  caused,  but  he  knew  that  in  some  way  certain 
things  that  passed  in  her  mind  were  instantly  present 
in  his,  and  that  he  could  generally  produce  by  rappings 
the  answers  he  desired  her  to  receive.  He  at  least 
knew   beforehand,  in   almost   every   case,   what   those 


A   STORY   OF  MODERN    ROME  313 

answers  would  be,  if  he  did  not  consciously  make  the 
sounds  that  signified  them.  If  he  had  ever  examined 
his  conscience,  supposing  that  he  had  any  left,  he 
would  have  found  that  he  himself  did  not  know  just 
where  deception  ended,  and  where  something  else 
began  which  he  could  not  explain,  which  frightened 
him  when  he  was  alone,  and  which,  when  he  had  sub- 
mitted wholly  to  it,  left  him  in  a  state  of  real  physical 
exhaustion.  He  was  inclined  to  believe  that  the 
mysterious  powers  were  really  the  spirits  of  dead 
persons  which  possessed  him  for  a  short  time,  and 
spoke  through  him.  Yet  when  one  of  these  spirits 
represented  itself  as  being  that  of  some  one  whom 
neither  he  nor  the  Princess  had  ever  met  in  life,  he 
was  dimly  conscious  that  it  never  said  anything  which 
had  not  been  already  known  to  her  or  to  him  at  some 
time,  or  which,  if  unknown,  was  the  spontaneous  crea- 
tion of  his  own  clouded  brain. 

To  her,  he  always  gravely  asserted  his  sure  belief 
in  the  authenticity  of  the  spirits  that  came,  and  since 
he  had  unexpectedly  succeeded  in  producing  messages 
from  her  little  girl,  any  doubt  she  had  ever  entertained 
had  completely  disappeared.  She  was  wholly  at  his 
mercy  so  long  as  this  state  of  things  could  be  made 
to  last,  and  he  was  correspondingly  careful  in  the  use 
he  made  of  his  new  power. 

The  Princess  was  therefore  told  that  she  must  trust 
him  altogether,  and  that  he  could  get  back  the  most  of 
her  money  for  her.  She  was  consoled,  indeed,  but  she 
was  naturally  curious  as  to  the  means  he  meant  to  use. 


314  CECILIA 

and  she  questioned  him  when  the  rappings  ceased  and 
the  lights  were  turned  up.  He  seemed  less  tired  than 
usual. 

"I  shall  trust  to  the  inspiration  of  the  spirits,"  he 
•said  evasively.  "In  any  case  we  have  the  law  on  our 
side.  Guido  cannot  deny  his  signature  to  those  receipts 
for  your  money,  and  he  will  find  it  hard  to  show  what 
became  of  such  large  sums.  They  are  a  gentleman's 
promise  to  pay  a  lady,  but  they  are  also  legal  docu- 
ments." 

"  But  they  are  not  stamped,"  objected  the  Princess, 
who  knew  more  about  such  things  than  she  sometimes 
admitted. 

"  You  are  mistaken.  They  are  all  stamped  for  their 
respective  values,  and  the  stamps  are  cancelled  by 
Guido's  signature." 

"  That  is  very  strange !  I  could  almost  have  sworn 
that  there  was  not  a  stamp  on  any  of  them !  How  could 
that  be  ?  He  used  to  write  them  on  half  sheets  of  very 
thick  note  paper,  and  I  never  gave  him  any  stamps." 

"He  probably  had  some  in  his  pocket-book,"  said 
Monsieur  Leroy.     "  At  all  events,  they  are  there." 

"  So  much  the  better.  But  it  is  very  strange  that  I 
should  never  have  noticed  them." 

Like  many  of  those  singular  beings  whom  we  com- 
monly call  "  mediums,"  Monsieur  Leroy  was  a  degener- 
ate in  mind  and  body,  and  his  character  was  a  compound 
of  malign  astuteness,  blundering  vanity,  and  hysterical 
sensitiveness,  all  directed  by  impulses  which  he  did  not 
try  to  understand.     Without  the  Princess's  protection 


A  STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  315 

through  life,  he  must  have  come  to  unutterable  grief 
more  than  once.  But  she  had  always  excused  his  mis- 
takes, made  apologies  for  him,  and  taken  infinite  pains 
to  make  him  appear  in  the  best  light  to  her  friends. 
He  naturally  attributed  her  solicitude  to  the  value  she 
set  upon  his  devotion  to  herself,  since  there  could  be  no 
other  reason  for  it.  Doubtless  a  charitable  impulse  had 
at  first  impelled  her  to  take  in  the  starving  baby  that 
had  been  found  on  the  doorstep  of  an  inn  in  the  south 
of  France.  That  was  all  he  knew  of  his  origin.  But 
he  knew  enough  of  her  character  to  be  sure  that  if  he 
had  not  shown  some  exceptional  gifts  at  an  early  age, 
he  would  soon  have  been  handed  over  to  s^ervants  or 
peasants  to  be  taken  care  of,  and  would  have  been  alto- 
gether forgotten  before  long.  Instead,  he  had  been 
spoiled,  sent  to  the  best  schools,  educated  as  a  gentle- 
man, treated  as  an  equal,  and  protected  like  a  son.  The 
Princess  had  given  him  money  to  spend  though  she  was 
miserly,  and  had  not  checked  his  fancies  in  his  early 
youth.  She  had  even  tried  to  marry  him  to  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  rich  manufacturer,  but  had  discovered  that  it  is 
not  easy  to  marry  a  young  gentleman  who  has  no  cer- 
tificate of  birth  at  all,  and  whose  certificate  of  baptism 
describes  him  as  of  unknown  parents.  On  one  point 
only  she  had  been  inexorable.  When  she  did  not  wish 
him  to  dine  with  her  or  to  appear  in  the  evening,  she 
insisted  that  he  should  stay  away.  Once  or  twice  he 
had  attempted  to  disobey  these  formal  orders,  but  he 
had  regretted  it,  for  he  had  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  one  of  the  most  merciless  human  beings  in  exist- 


816  CECILIA 

ence,  and  his  own  character  was  far  from  strong.  He 
had  therefore  submitted  altogether  to  the  rule,  well  sat- 
isfied with  the  power  he  had  over  her  in  most  other 
respects,  but  he  felt  that  he  must  not  lose  it.  The 
Princess  was  old  and  was  growing  daily  more  capricious. 
She  had  left  him  a  handsome  competence  in  her  will,  as 
much,  indeed,  as  most  bachelors  would  consider  a  for- 
tune, but  she  was  not  dead  yet,  and  she  might  change 
her  mind  at  the  last  moment.  He  trembled  to  think 
what  his  end  must  be  if  she  should  die  and  leave  him 
penniless  to  face  the  world  alone  at  his  age,  without  a 
profession  and  without  real  friends.  For  no  one  liked 
him,  though  some  people  feared  his  tongue,  and  he  knew 
it.  Perhaps  Guido  would  take  pity  on  him  and  give 
him  shelter,  for  Guido  was  charitable,  but  the  thought 
was  not  pleasant.  Never  having  been  hungry  since  he 
could  remember.  Monsieur  Leroy  thought  starvation 
would  be  preferable  to  eating  Guido  d'Este's  bread. 
There  was  certainly  no  one  else  who  would  throw  him 
a  crust,  and  though  he  had  received  a  good  deal  of 
money  from  the  Princess,  and  had  managed  to  take  a 
good  deal  more  from  her,  he  had  never  succeeded  in 
keeping  any  of  it. 

It  was  necessary  to  form  some  plan  at  once  for 
extracting  money  by  means  of  Guido's  receipts,  since 
the  marriage  was  not  to  take  place,  and  as  Monsieur 
Leroy  altogether  failed  to  hit  upon  any  satisfactory 
scheme  he  consulted  a  lawyer  in  confidence,  and  asked 
what  could  be  done  to  recover  the  value.  The  lawyer 
was  a  man  of  doubtful  reputation  but  of  incontestable 


A   STORY  OF  MODERN  ROME  317 

skill,  and  after  considering  the  matter  in  all  its  bearings 
he  gave  his  client  some  slight  hope  of  success,  pro- 
portionate to  the  amount  of  money  Guido  could  raise 
by  the  sale  of  his  effects  and  by  borrowing  from  his 
many  friends.  He  was  glad  to  learn  that  Guido  had 
never  borrowed,  except,  as  Monsieur  Leroy  explained, 
from  his  aunt.  A  man  in  such  a  position  could  raise 
a  round  sum  if  suddenly  driven  to  extremities  to  save 
his  honour. 

The  lawyer  also  asked  Monsieur  Leroy  for  details 
concerning  Guido's  life  during  the  last  four  or  five 
years,  inquiring  very  particularly  about  his  social  rela- 
tions and  as  to  his  having  ever  been  in  love  with  a 
woman  of  his  own  rank,  or  with  one  of  inferior  station. 
Monsieur  Leroy  answered  all  these  questions  with  a 
conscientious  desire  to  speak  the  truth,  which  was  new 
to  him,  for  he  realised  that  only  the  truth  could  be  of 
use  in  such  a  case,  and  that  the  slightest  unfounded 
invention  of  his  own  against  Guido's  character  must 
mislead  the  man  he  was  consulting.  In  this  he  showed 
himself  wiser  than  he  often  was. 

"  Above  all,"  the  lawyer  concluded,  "  never  mention 
my  name  to  any  one,  and  try  to  appear  surprised  at 
anything  unexpected  which  you  may  hear  about  Signer 
d'Este." 

Monsieur  Leroy  promised  readily  enough,  though 
reticence  was  not  his  strong  point,  and  he  went  away 
well  pleased  with  himself,  after  signing  a  little  paper 
by  which  it  was  agreed  that  the  lawyer  should  receive 
twenty  per  cent  of  any  sums   obtained   from   Guido 


818  CECILIA 

through  him.  He  had  not  omitted  to  inform  his 
adviser  of  the  celebrated  Doctor  Baumgarten's  favour- 
able opinion  on  the  Andrea  del  Sarto  and  the  small 
Raphael.  The  lawyer  told  him  not  to  be  impatient, 
as  affairs  of  this  sort  required  the  utmost  discretion. 
But  the  man  saw  that  he  had  a  good  chance  of 
being  engaged  in  one  of  those  cases  that  make  an 
unnecessary  amount  of  noise  and  are  therefore  excel- 
lent advertisements  for  a  comparatively  unknown 
practitioner  who  has  more  wit  than  scruples.  He  did 
not  believe  that  all  of  Guido's  many  high  and  mighty 
relations  would  take  the  side  of  Princess  Anatolic, 
and  if  any  of  them  took  the  trouble  to  defend  her 
nephew  against  her,  the  newspapers  would  be  full  of 
the  case  and  his  own  name  would  be  famous  in  a 
day. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

Cecilia  told  her  mother  what  Lamberti  had  advised 
her  to  do  for  Guido's  sake,  and  that  she  had  sent  her 
message  by  him.  The  Countess  was  surprised  and  did 
not  quite  like  the  plan. 

"Either  you  love  him,  or  you  do  not,  my  dear," 
she  said.  "You  were  sure  that  you  did  not,  and 
you  told  him  so.  That  was  sensible,  at  least,  though 
I  think  you  might  have  found  out  earlier  what  you  felt. 
It  is  much  better  to  let  him  understand  at  once  that 
you  will  not  marry  him.  Men  would  always  rather 
know  the  truth  at  once  and  get  over  it  than  be  kept 
dangling  at  a  capricious  woman's  beck  and  call." 

Cecilia  did  not  explain  that  Lamberti  feared  for  his 
friend's  life.  In  broad  daylight  that  looked  dramatic, 
and  her  mother  would  not  believe  it.  She  only  said 
that  she  was  sure  she  was  acting  for  the  best  and  that 
the  engagement  was  to  stand  a  little  longer,  adding 
that  she  wished  to  leave  Rome,  as  it  was  very  hot. 
In  her  heart  she  was  hurt  at  being  called  capricious, 
but  was  too  penitent  to  deny  the  charge. 

The  Countess  at  once  wrote  a  formal  note  to  Princess 
Anatolie  in  which  she  said  that  she  had  been  hasty  and 
spoken  too  soon,  that  her  daughter  seemed  undecided, 

819 


320  CECILIA 

and  that  nothing  was  to  be  said  at  present  about  break- 
ing the  engagement.  The  marriage,  she  added,  would 
be  put  off  until  the  autumn. 

The  Princess  showed  this  communication  to  Monsieur 
Leroy  when  he  came  in.  He  did  not  mean  to  tell  her 
about  his  visit  to  the  lawyer,  for  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  play  on  her  credulity  as  much  as  he  could  and  to 
attribute  any  advantage  she  might  gain  by  his  manoeu- 
vres to  supernatural  intervention.  The  Countess's  let- 
ter surprised  him  very  much,  and  as  he  did  not  know 
what  to  do,  it  seemed  easy  to  do  nothing.  He  expressed 
his  disgust  at  Cecilia's  vacillation. 

"  She  is  a  flirt  and  her  mother  is  a  fool,"  he  said,  and 
the  speech  seemed  to  him  pithy  and  concise. 

The  old  Princess  raised  her  aristocratic  eyebrows  a 
little.  She  would  have  expressed  the  same  idea  more 
delicately.  There  was  a  vulgar  streak  in  his  character 
that  often  jarred  on  her,  but  she  said  nothing,  for  she 
was  inexplicably  fond  of  him.  For  her  own  part,  she 
was  glad  that  Cecilia  had  apparently  changed  her  mind 
again. 

Later  in  the  day  she  received  a  few  words  from  Guido, 
written  in  an  unsteady  hand,  to  say  that  he  was  sorry  he 
could  not  come  and  see  her  as  he  had  a  bad  attack  of 
influenza.  At  the  word  she  dropped  the  note  as  if  it 
burnt  her  fingers,  and  called  Monsieur  Leroy,  for  she 
believed  that  influenza  could  be  communicated  in  almost 
any  way,  and  it  was  the  only  disease  she  really  feared : 
she  had  a  presentiment  that  she  was  to  die  of  it. 

"Take  that  thing  away,  Doudou!"    she  cried  ner- 


A   STOKY  OF  MODERN  EOME  321 

vously.  "  Pick  it  up  with  the  tongs  and  burn  it.  He 
has  the  influenza !     I  am  sure  I  have  caught  it  I  " 

Monsieur  Leroy  obeyed,  while  she  retired  to  her  own 
room  to  spend  half  an  hour  in  those  various  measures  of 
disinfection  which  prophylactic  medicine  has  recently 
taught  timid  people.  She  had  caused  her  maid  to  tele- 
phone to  Guido  not  to  send  any  more  notes  until  he 
was  quite  well. 

"You  must  not  go  near  him  for  a  week,  Doudou," 
she  said  when  she  came  back  at  last,  feeling  herself 
comparatively  safe.  "  But  you  may  ask  how  he  is  by 
telephone  every  morning.  I  do  not  believe  there  can 
be  any  danger  in  that." 

Electricity  was  a  mysterious  power  after  all,  and 
seemed  infinitely  harder  to  understand  than  the  ways 
of  the  supernatural  beings  with  whom  Monsieur  Le^oy 
placed  her  in  daily  communication.  She  had  heard  a 
celebrated  man  of  science  say  that  he  himself  was  not 
quite  sure  what  electricity  might  or  might  not  do  since 
the  discovery  of  the  X-rays. 

Her  precautions  had  the  effect  of  cutting  off  commu- 
nication between  her  and  her  nephew  until  her  departure 
from  Rome,  which  took  place  in  the  course  of  a  few 
days,  considerably  to  the  relief  of  the  Countess,  who  did 
not  wish  to  meet  her  after  what  had  passed. 

Monsieur  Leroy  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  go  and 
see  the  lawyer  again  in  order  to  stop  any  proceedings 
which  the  latter  might  be  already  taking.  Below  his 
wish  to  serve  the  Princess  and  his  hope  of  profiting  by 
his  success,  there  lay  his  deep-rooted  and  unreasoning 


322  CECILIA 

jealousy  of  Guido  d'Este,  which  he  had  never  before 
seen  any  safe  chance  of  gratifying.  It  would  be  a  pro- 
found satisfaction  to  see  this  man,  who  was  the  mirror 
of  honour,  driven  to  extremities  to  escape  disgrace. 
Another  element  in  his  decision,  if  it  could  be  called 
that,  was  the  hopeless  disorder  of  his  degenerate  intel- 
ligence, which  made  it  far  easier  for  him  to  allow  any- 
thing he  had  done  to  bear  fruit,  to  the  last  consequence, 
than  to  make  a  second  effort  in  order  to  arrest  the 
growth  of  evil. 

The  lawyer  was  at  work,  silently  and  skilfully,  and 
in  a  few  days  Princess  Anatolic  and  Monsieur  Leroy 
were  comfortably  established  in  her  place  in  Styria, 
\\vhere  the  air  was  delightfully  cool. 

What  was  left  of  society  in  Rome  learned  with  a 
lit  tie  surprise,  but  without  much  regret,  that  the  wed- 
ding was  put  off,  and  those  who  had  country  places  not 
far  f  Tom  the  city,  and  had  already  gone  out  to  them  for 
the  s  ummer,  were  delighted  to  know  that  they  would 
not  be  expected  to  come  into  town  for  the  marriage 
durinj^x  the  great  heat.  No  date  had  ever  been  really 
fixed  f  or  it,  and  there  was  therefore  no  matter  for  gos- 
sip or  discussion.  The  only  persons  who  knew  that 
Cecilia,  had  made  an  attempt  to  break  it  off  altogether 
were  those  most  nearly  concerned. 

The  Countess  and  Cecilia  made  preparations  for  go- 
ing away,  and  the  dressmakers  and  other  tradespeople 
breathed  more  freely  when  they  were  told  that  they  need 
not  hurry  themselves  any  longer. 

But  Cecilia  had  no  intention  of  leaving  without  hav- 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN  ROME  323 

ing  seen  Guido  more  than  once  again,  hard  as  it  might 
be  for  her  to  face  him.  Lamberti  had  written  to  her 
mother  that  he  accepted  Cecilia's  decision  gladly,  and 
hoped  to  be  out  of  his  room  in  a  few  days,  but  that  he 
did  not  appear  to  be  recovering  fast.  He  did  not  seem 
to  be  so  strong  as  his  friend  had  thought,  and  the  short 
illness,  together  with  the  mental  shock  of  Cecilia's 
letter,  had  made  him  very  weak.  The  news  of  him 
was  much  the  same  for  three  days,  and  the  young  girl 
grew  anxious.  She  knew  that  Lamberti  spent  most  of 
his  time  with  Guido,  but  he  had  not  been  to  the  Palazzo 
Massimo  since  his  interview  with  her.  She  wished  she 
could  see  him  and  ask  questions,  if  only  he  could  tem- 
porarily be  turned  into  some  one  else ;  but  since  that 
was  impossible,  she  was  glad  that  he  did  not  come  to 
the  house.  She  spent  long  hours  in  reading,  while 
Petersen  and  the  servants  made  preparations  for  the 
journey,  and  she  wrote  a  line  to  Guido  every  day,  to 
tell  him  how  sorry  she  was  for  him.  She  received  grate- 
ful notes  from  him,  so  badly  written  that  she  could 
hardly  read  them. 

On  the  fourth  day,  no  answer  came,  but  Lamberti 
sent  her  mother  a  line  an  hour  later  to  say  that  Guido 
had  more  fever  than  usual  and  could  not  write  that  morn- 
ing, but  was  in  no  danger,  as  far  as  the  doctor  could  say. 

"  I  should  like  to  go  and  see  him,"  Cecilia  said.  "  He 
is  very  ill,  and  it  is  my  fault." 

The  Countess  was  horrified  at  the  suggestion. 

"My  dear  child,"  she  cried,  "you  are  quite  mad! 
Why,  the  poor  man  is  in  bed,  of  course  I " 


324  CHOILIA 

"  I  hope  so,"  Cecilia  answered  unmoved.  "  But  Sig- 
Hor  Lamberti  could  carry  him  to  his  sitting  room." 

"  Who  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing !  " 

"We  could  go  in  a  cab,  with  thick  veils,"  Cecilia 
continued.     "No  one  would  ever  know." 

"  Think  of  Petersen,  my  dear !  Women  of  our  class 
do  not  wear  thick  veils  in  the  street.  For  heaven's 
sake  put  this  absurd  idea  out  of  your  head." 

"  It  does  not  seem  absurd  to  me." 

"Then  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,"  re- 
torted the  Countess,  losing  her  temper.  "  You  do  not 
even  mean  to  marry  him,  and  yet  you  talk  of  going  to 
see  him  when  he  is  ill,  as  if  he  were  already  your  hus- 
band!" 

"  What  if  he  dies  ?  "  Cecilia  asked  suddenly. 

"  There  will  be  time  enough  to  think  about  it  then," 
answered  the  Countess,  with  insufficient  reflection. 
"  Besides  he  is  not  going  to  die  of  a  touch  of  influenza." 

"  Signer  Lamberti  says  he  is  very  ill.  Several  people 
died  of  it  last  winter,  you  know.  I  suppose  you  mean 
that  I  need  not  think  of  trying  to  see  him  until  we  hear 
that  there  is  no  hope  for  him." 

"Well?" 

"That  might  be  too  late.  He  might  not  know  me. 
It  seems  to  me  that  it  would  be  better  to  try  and  save 
his  life,  or  if  he  is  not  in  real  danger,  to  help  him  to  get 
well." 

"  If  you  insist  upon  it,"  said  the  Countess,  "  I  will 
go  and  see  him  myself  and  take  a  message  from  you. 
I  suppose  that  nobody  could  find  anything  serious  to 


A   STOE.Y  OF  MODEEK  KOME  325 

say  against  me  for  it,  though  really  —  I  am  not  so  old 
as  that,  am  I  ?  " 

"  I  think  every  one  would  think  it  was  very  kind  of 
you  to  go  and  see  him." 

"Do  you?  Well  —  perhaps  —  I  am  not  sure.  I 
never  did  such  a  thing  in  my  life.  I  am  sure  I  should 
feel  most  uncomfortable  when  I  found  myself  in  a 
young  man's  rooms.  We  had  better  send  him  some 
jelly  and  beef-tea.  A  bachelor  can  never  get  those 
things." 

"  It  would  not  be  the  same  as  if  I  could  see  him," 
said  Cecilia,  mildly. 

Her  mother  did  not  like  to  admit  this  proposition, 
and  disappeared  soon  afterward.  Without  telling  her 
daughter,  she  wrote  an  urgent  note  to  Lamberti  beg- 
ging him  to  come  and  dine  and  tell  them  all  about 
Guido's  illness,  as  she  and  Cecilia  were  very  anxious 
about  him. 

Cecilia  went  out  alone  with  Petersen  late  in  the  hot 
afternoon.  She  wished  she  could  have  walked  the 
length  of  Rome  and  back,  but  her  companion  was  not 
equal  to  any  such  effort  in  the  heat,  so  the  two  got  into 
a  cab.  She  did  not  like  to  drive  with  her  maid  in  her 
own  carriage,  simply  because  she  had  never  done  it. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  wished  she  were  a 
man,  free  to  go  alone  where  she  pleased,  and  when  she 
pleased.  She  could  be  alone  in  the  house,  but  nowhere 
out  of  doors,  unless  she  went  to  the  villa,  and  she  was 
determined  not  to  go  there  again  before  leaving  Rome. 
It  had  disagreeable  associations,  since   she   had  been 


826  CECILIA 

obliged  to  sit  on  the  bench  by  the  fountain  with  Guido 
a  few  days  ago.  She  remembered,  too,  that  at  the  very 
moment  when  his  paternal  warning  not  to  catch  cold 
had  annoyed  her,  he  had  probably  caught  cold  himself, 
and  she  did  not  know  why  this  lowered  him  a  little  in 
her  estimation,  but  it  did.  She  was  ashamed  to  think 
that  such  a  trifle  might  have  helped  to  make  her  write 
the  letter  which  had  hurt  him  so  much. 

She  went  to  the  Forum,  for  there  she  could  make 
Petersen  sit  down,  and  could  walk  about  a  little,  and 
nobody  would  care,  because  she  should  meet  no  one 
she  knew. 

As  they  went  down  the  broad  way  inside  the  wicket 
at  which  the  tickets  are  sold,  she  saw  a  party  of 
tourists  on  their  way  to  the  House  of  the  Vestals.  Of 
late  years  both  Germans  and  Americans  have  discov- 
ered that  Rome  is  not  so  hot  in  summer  as  the  English 
all  say  it  is,  and  that  fever  does  not  lurk  behind  every 
wall  to  spring  upon  the  defenceless  foreigner. 

The  tourists  were  of  the  usual  class,  and  Cecilia  was 
annoyed  to  find  them  where  she  had  hoped  to  be  alone  ;- 
but  they  would  soon  go  away,  and  she  sat  down  with 
Petersen  to  wait  for  their  going,  under  the  shadow  of 
the  temple  of  Castor  and  Pollux.  Petersen  began  to 
read  her  guide-book,  and  the  young  girl  fell  to  think- 
ing while  she  pushed  a  little  stone  from  side  to  side 
with  the  point  of  her  parasol,  trying  to  bring  it  each 
time  to  the  exact  spot  on  which  it  had  lain  before. 

She  was  thinking  of  all  that  had  happened  to  her 
since  she  left  Petersen  in  that  same  place  on  the  May 


A   STOBY   OF   MODERN  ROME  327 

morning  that  seemed  left  behind  in  another  existence, 
and  she  was  wondering  whether  she  would  go  back 
to  that  point,  if  she  could,  and  live  the  months  over 
again ;  or  whether,  if  the  return  were  possible,  she 
would  have  made  the  rest  different  from  what  it  had 
been. 

It  would  have  been  so  much  easier  to  go  on  loving 
the  man  in  the  dream  to  the  end  of  her  life,  meeting 
him  again  and  again  in  the  old  surroundings  that  were 
more  familiar  to  her  than  those  in  which  she  lived.  It 
would  have  been  so  much  better  to  be  always  her  fan- 
cied self,  to  be  the  faithful  Vestal,  leading  the  man  she 
loved  by  sure  degrees  to  heights  of  immaterial  blessed- 
ness in  that  cool  outer  firmament  where  sight  and  hear- 
ing and  feeling,  and  thinking  and  loving,  were  all 
merged  in  a  universal  consciousness.  It  would  have 
been  so  much  easier  not  to  love  a  real  man,  above  all 
not  to  love  one  who  never  could  love  her,  come  what 
might.  And  besides,  if  all  that  had  gone  on,  she 
would  never  have  brought  disappointment  and  suffer- 
ing upon  Guido  d'Este. 

She  decided  that  it  would  have  been  preferable,  by 
far,  to  have  gone  on  with  her  life  of  dreams,  and  when 
awake  to  have  been  as  she  had  always  known  herself, 
in  love  with  everything  that  made  her  think  and  with 
nothing  that  made  her  feel. 

But  in  the  very  moment  when  the  matter  seemed 
decided,  she  remembered  how  she  had  looked  into 
Lamberti's  eyes  three  nights  ago,  and  had  felt  some- 
thing more  delicious  than  all  thinking  while  she  told 


328  CECILIA 

him  how  she  loved  that  other  man,  who  was  himself. 
That  one  moment  had  seemed  worth  an  age  of  dreams 
and  a  lifetime  of  visions,  and  for  it  she  knew  that  she 
would  give  them  all,  again  and  again. 

The  point  of  the  parasol  did  not  move  now,  but  lay 
against  the  little  stone,  just  where  she  was  looking,  for 
she  was  no  longer  weighing  anything  in  her  mind  nor 
answering  reasons  with  reasons.  With  the  realisation 
of  fact,  came  quickly  the  infinite  regret  and  longing 
she  knew  so  well,  yet  which  always  consoled  her  a  little. 
She  had  a  right  to  love  as  she  did,  since  she  was  to  suf- 
fer by  it  all  her  life.  If  she  had  thrown  over  Guido 
d'Este  to  marry  Lamberti,  there  would  have  been  some- 
thing guilty  in  loving  him.  But  there  was  not.  She 
was  perfectly  disinterested,  absolutely  without  one 
thought  for  her  own  happiness,  and  if  she  had  done 
wrong  she  had  done  it  unconsciously  and  was  going 
to  pay  the  penalty  with  the  fullest  consciousness  of  its 
keenness. 

The  tourists  trooped  back,  grinding  the  path  with 
their  heavy  shoes,  hot,  dusty,  tired,  and  persevering,  as 
all  good  tourists  are.  They  stared  at  her  when  they 
thought  she  was  not  watching  them,  for  they  were 
simple  and  discreet  souls,  bent  on  improving  them- 
selves, and  though  they  despised  her  a  little  for  not 
toiling  like  themselves,  they  saw  that  she  was  beautiful 
and  cool  and  quiet,  sitting  there  in  the  shade,  in  her 
light  summer  frock,  and  her  white  gloves,  and  her 
Paris  hat,  and  the  men  admired  her  as  a  superior  be- 
ing, who  might  be  an  angel  or  a  demon,  while  all  the 


A   STORY  OF  MODERN  ROME  329 

women  envied  her  to  the  verge  of  hatred ;  and  because 
she  was  accompanied  by  such  an  evidently  respectable 
person  as  Peterson  was,  they  could  not  even  say  that 
she  was  probably  an  actress.  This  distressed  them 
very  much. 

Kant  says  somewhere  that  when  a  man  turns  from 
argument  and  appeals  to  mankind's  common  sense,  it 
is  a  sure  sign  that  his  reasoning  is  worthless.  Similarly, 
when  women  can  find  nothing  reasonable  to  say  against 
a  fellow-woman  who  is  pretty  and  well  dressed,  they 
generally  say  that  she  looks  like  an  actress ;  and  this 
means  according  to  the  customs  of  a  hundred  years 
ago,  which  women  seem  to  remember  though  most 
men  have  forgotten  them,  that  she  is  an  excommuni- 
cated person  not  fit  to  be  buried  like  a  Christian. 
Really,  they  could  hardly  say  more  in  a  single  word. 

When  the  tourists  were  at  a  safe  distance  Cecilia 
rose,  bidding  Petersen  sit  still,  and  she  went  slowly 
on  towards  the  House  of  the  Vestals,  and  up  the  little 
inclined  wooden  bridge  which  at  that  time  led  up  to  it, 
till  she  stood  within  the  court,  her  hand  resting  almost 
on  the  very  spot  where  it  had  been  when  Lamberti  had 
come  upon  her  in  the  spring  morning. 

Her  memories  rose  and  her  thoughts  flashed  back 
with  them  through  ages,  giving  the  ruined  house  its 
early  beauty  again,  out  of  her  own  youth.  She  was 
not  dreaming  now,  but  she  knew  instinctively  how  it 
had  been  in  those  last  days  of  the  Vestals'  existence, 
and  wished  every  pillar,  and  angle,  and  cornice,  and 
ornament  back,  each  into  its  own  place  and  unchanged. 


330  CECILIA 

and  herself,  where  she  was,  in  full  consciousness  of  life 
and  thought,  at  the  very  moment  when  she  had  first 
seen  the  man's  face  and  had  understood  that  one  may- 
vow  away  the  dying  body  but  not  the  deathless  soul. 
That  had  been  the  beginning  of  her  being  alive.  Be- 
fore that,  she  had  been  as  a  flower,  growing  by  the 
universal  will,  one  of  those  things  that  are  created 
pure  and  beautiful  and  fragrant  from  the  first  without 
thought  or  merit  of  their  own ;  and  then,  as  a  young 
bird  in  the  nest,  high  in  air,  in  a  deep  forest,  in  early 
summer,  looking  out  and  wondering,  but  not  knowing 
yet,  its  little  heart  beating  fast  with  only  one  instinct, 
to  be  out  and  alone  on  the  wing.  But  afterwards  all 
had  changed  instantly  and  knowledge  had  come  with- 
out learning,  because  what  was  to  make  it  was  already 
present  in  subtle  elements  that  needed  only  the  first 
breath  of  understanding  to  unite  themselves  in  an 
ordered  and  perfect  meaning;  as  the  electric  spark, 
striking  through  invisible  mingled  gases,  makes  per- 
fect union  of  them  in  crystal  drops  of  water. 

That  had  been  the  beginning,  since  conscious  life 
begins  in  the  very  instant  when  the  soul  is  first  know- 
ingly answerable  for  the  whole  being's  actions,  in  the 
light  of  good  and  evil,  and  first  asks  the  only  three 
questions  which  human  reason  has  never  wholly  an- 
swered, which  are  as  to  knowledge,  and  duty,  and 
hope. 

Who  shall  say  that  life,  in  that  sense,  may  not  begin 
in  a  dream,  as  well  as  in  what  we  call  reality  ?  What 
is  a  dream  ?    Sometimes  a  wandering  through  a  maze 


A   STORY  OI^  MODEBN  ROME  331 

of  absurdities,  in  which  we  feel  as  madmen  must,  believ- 
ing  ourselves  to  be  other  beings  than  ourselves,  con- 
ceiving the  laws  of  nature  to  be  reversed  for  our 
advantage  or  our  ruin,  seeing  right  as  wrong  and  wrong 
as  right,  in  the  pathetic  innocence  of  the  idiot  or  the 
senseless  rage  of  the  maniac,  convinced  beyond  all 
argument  that  the  absolutely  impossible  is  happening 
before  our  eyes,  yet  never  in  the  least  astonished  by  any 
wonders,  though  subject  to  terrors  we  never  feel  when 
we  are  awake.  Has  no  one  ever  understood  that  con- 
fused dreaming  must  be  exactly  like  the  mental  state  of 
the  insane,  and  that  if  we  dreamed  such  dreams  with 
open  eyes,  we  should  be  raving  mad,  or  hopelessly 
idiotic  ?  It  is  true,  whether  any  one  has  ever  said  so  or 
not.  Inanimate  things  turn  into  living  creatures,  the 
chair  we  sit  on  becomes  a  horse,  the  arm-chair  is  turned 
into  a  wild  beast;  and  we  ride  a-hunting  through 
endless  drawing-rooms  which  are  full  of  trees  and  under- 
growth, till  the  trees  are  suddenly  peojole  and  are  all 
dancing  and  laughing  at  us,  because  we  have  come  to 
the  ball  in  attire  so  exceedingly  scanty  that  we  wonder 
how  the  servants  could  have  let  us  in.  And  in  the 
midst  of  all  this,  when  we  are  frantically  searching  for 
our  clothes,  and  for  a  railway  ticket,  which  we  are  sure 
is  in  the  right-hand  pocket  of  the  waistcoat,  if  only  we 
could  find  it,  and  if  some  one  would  tell  us  from  which 
side  of  the  station  the  train  starts,  and  we  wish  we  had 
not  forgotten  to  eat  something,  and  had  not  unpacked 
all  our  luggage  and  scattered  everything  about  the 
railway  refreshment  room,  and  that  some  kind  person 


332  CECILIA 

would  tell  us  where  our  money  is,  and  that  another 
would  take  a  few  of  the  fifty  things  we  are  trying  to 
hold  in  our  hands  without  dropping  any  of  them ;  in  the 
midst  of  all  this,  I  say,  a  dead  man  we  knew  comes  from 
his  grave  and  stares  at  us,  and  asks  why  we  cruelly  let 
him  die,  long  ago,  without  saying  that  one  word  which 
would  have  meant  joy  or  despair  to  him  at  the  last 
moment.  Then  our  hair  stands  up  and  our  teeth  chatter, 
because  the  secret  of  the  soul  has  risen  against  us  where 
we  least  expected  it ;  and  we  wake  alone  in  the  dark 
with  the  memory  of  the  dead. 

Is  not  that  madness  ?  What  else  can  madness  be  but 
that  disjointing  of  ordered  facts  into  dim  and  disorderly 
fiction,  pierced  here  and  there  by  lingering  lights  of 
memory  and  reason  ?  All  of  us  sometimes  go  mad  in 
our  sleep.  But  it  does  not  follow  that  in  dreaming  we 
are  not  sometimes  sane,  rational,  responsible,  our  own 
selves,  good  or  bad,  doing  and  saying  things  which  we 
might  say  and  do  in  real  life,  but  which  we  have  never 
said  nor  done,  incurring  the  consequences  of  our  words 
and  deeds  as  if  they  were  actual,  keeping  good  faith  or 
breaking  it,  according  to  our  own  natures,  accomplish- 
ing by  effort,  or  failing  through  indolence,  as  the  case 
may  be,  blushing  with  genuine  shame,  laughing  with 
genuine  mirth,  and  burning  with  genuine  anger ;  and  all 
this  may  go  on  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the 
dream,  without  a  single  moment  of  impossibility,  with- 
out one  incident  which  would  surprise  us  in  the  waking 
state.  With  most  people  dreams  of  this  kind  are  rare, 
but  every  one  who  dreams  at  all  must  have  had  them 
once  or  twice  in  life. 


A   STORY   OF  MODERN  ROME  333 

If  we  are  therefore  sometimes  sane  in  dreams  we  can 
remember,  and  act  in  them  as  we  really  should,  accord- 
ing to  our  individual  consciences  and  possessed  of  our 
usual  intelligence  and  knowledge,  it  cannot  be  denied 
that  a  series  of  such  imaginary  actions  constitutes  a  real 
experience,  during  which  we  have  risen  or  fallen,  accord- 
ing as  we  have  thought  or  acted.  Some  dreams  of  this 
kind  leave  impressions  as  lasting  as  that  made  by  any 
reality.  The  merit  or  fault  is  wholly  fictitious,  no  doubt, 
because  although  we  have  fancied  that  we  could  exer- 
cise our  free  will,  we  were  powerless  to  use  it ;  but  the 
experience  gained  is  not  imaginary,  where  the  dream 
has  been  strictly  sane,  any  more  than  thought,  in  the 
abstract,  is  fictitious  because  it  is  not  action.  People 
of  some  imagination  can  easily,  while  wide  awake,  imag- 
ine a  series  of  actions  and  decide  rationally  what  course 
they  would  pursue  in  each,  and  such  decisions  constitute 
undoubted  experience,  which  may  materially  affect  the 
conduct  of  the  individual  if  cases  similar  to  the  fancied 
ones  present  themselves  in  life.  When  there  is  no  time 
to  be  lost,  the  instantaneous  recollection  of  a  train  of 
reasoning  may  often  mean  instant  decision,  followed  by 
immediate  action,  upon  which  the  most  important  con- 
sequences may  follow. 

Will  any  one  venture  to  maintain  that  the  vivid 
impressions  left  by  rational  dreams  do  not  act  in  the 
same  way  upon  the  mind,  and  through  the  mind  upon 
the  will,  and  by  the  will  upon  our  actions  ?  And  if  we 
could  direct  our  dreams  as  we  pleased,  so  that  they  should 
be  always  rational,  as  some  persons  believe  that  we  can, 


334  CECILIA 

should  we  not  be  continually  gaining  experience  of  our- 
selves while  sleeping,  as  well  as  when  awake?  More- 
over, it  is  certain  that  there  are  men  and  women  who 
are  particularly  endowed  with  the  faculty  of  dreaming, 
and  who  can  very  often  dream  of  any  subject  they 
please. 

Since  this  digression  is  already  so  long,  let  one  more 
thing  be  said,  which  has  not  been  said  before,  so  far  as 
the  writer  can  find  out.  Our  waking  memory  is  defec- 
tive ;  with  most  men  it  is  so  to  a  lamentable  degree. 
It  often  happens  that  people  forget  that  they  have  read 
a  story,  for  instance,  and  begin  to  read  it  again,  and  do 
not  discover  that  they  have  already  done  so  till  they 
have  turned  over  many  pages.  It  happens  constantly 
that  the  taste  of  something  we  eat,  or  the  odour  of 
something  we  smell,  recalls  a  scene  we  cannot  remember 
at  first,  but  which  sometimes  comes  back  after  a  little 
while.  Almost  every  one  has  felt  now  and  then  that  a 
fragment  of  present  conversation  is  not  new  to  him,  and 
that  he  has  performed  certain  actions  already,  though 
he  cannot  remember  when.  With  some  people  these 
broken  recollections  are  so  frequent  and  vivid  as  to 
lead  to  all  sorts  of  theories  to  explain  them,  such  as  the 
possibility  of  former  existences  on  earth,  or  the  more 
materialistic  probability  that  memories  are  transmitted 
from  parents  and  ancestors  from  the  direct  ascending 
lines. 

One  theory  has  been  neglected.  At  such  times  we 
may  be  remembering  vaguely,  or  even  with  some  dis- 
tinctness, parts  of  dreams  of  which  we  had  no  recoUec- 


A    STORY  OF   MODERN   ROME  335 

tion  on  waking,  but  which,  nevertheless,  made  their 
impressions  on  the  brain  that  produced  them,  while  we 
were  asleep.  Unconscious  ratiocination  is  certainly  not 
a  myth ;  and  if,  by  it,  we  can  produce  our  own  forgotten 
actions,  and  even  find  objects  we  have  lost,  by  doing 
over  again  exactly  what  we  were  doing  when  the  thing 
we  seek  was  last  in  our  hands,  sure  that  the  rest  of  the 
action  will  repeat  itself  spontaneously,  we  should  not 
be  going  much  farther  if  we  repeated  both  actions  and 
words  unconsciously  remembered  out  of  dreams.  Much 
that  seems  very  mysterious  in  our  sensations  may  be 
explained  in  that  way,  and  the  explanation  has  the 
advantage  of  being  simpler  than  that  afforded  by  the 
theory  of  atavism,  and  more  orthodox  than  that  offered 
by  the  believers  in  the  transmigration  of  souls. 

Cecilia  Palladio  had  no  need  of  it,  for  she  did  not 
forget  the  one  dream  that  pleased  her  best,  and  she  was 
^never  puzzled  by  uncertain  recollections  of  any  other. 
Her  life  had  begun  in  it,  and  had  turned  upon  it  always, 
and  after  she  had  parted  with  it  by  an  act  of  will,  she 
had  retained  the  fullest  remembrance  of  its  details. 

She  left  the  place  where  she  had  paused  near  the 
entrance,  and  slowly  walked  up  the  long  court,  by  the 
dry  excavated  basins;  she  ascended  the  low  steps  to 
the  raised  floor  beyond,  and  stood  still  before  the  door 
of  her  own  room,  the  second  on  the  left.  She  had  meant 
to  go  in  and  look  at  it  quietly,  but  since  she  had  taken 
refuge  there  when  she  ran  away  from  Lamberti,  iron 
gates  had  been  placed  at  the  entrances  of  all  the  six 
rooms,  and  they  were  locked.     In  hers  a  quantity  of 


336  CECILIA 

fragments  of  sculptured  marble  and  broken  earthen 
vessels  were  laid  side  by  side  on  the  floor,  or  were 
standing  against  the  walls  and  in  the  corners. 

She  felt  as  if  she  had  been  shut  out  by  an  act  of 
tyranny,  just  as  when  she  and  her  five  companions  had 
sadly  left  the  House,  obedient  to  the  Christian  Emper- 
or's decree,  long  ago.  It  had  always  been  her  room 
ever  since  she  had  first  dreamt.  The  beautiful  narrow 
bronze  bedstead  used  to  stand  on  the  left,  the  carved 
oak  wardrobe  inlaid  with  ivory  was  on  the  right,  the 
marble  table  was  just  under  the  window,  covered  with 
objects  she  needed  for  her  toilet,  exquisite  things  of 
chiselled  silver  and  of  polished  ivory.  The  chair, 
rounded  at  the  back  and  with  cushioned  seat,  like 
Agrippina's,  was  near  it.  In  winter,  the  large  bronze 
brazier  of  coals,  changed  twice  daily,  was  always  placed 
in  the  middle  of  the  room.  The  walls  were  wainscoted 
with  Asian  marble,  and  painted  above  that  with  por- 
traits in  fresco  of  great  and  ancient  Vestals  who  had 
been  holier  than  the  rest,  each  in  her  snowy  robes,  with 
the  white  veil  drawn  up  and  backwards  over  her  head, 
and  brought  forward  again  over  the  shoulder,  and  each 
holding  some  sacred  vessel  or  instrument  in  her  one 
uncovered  hand.  There  were  stories  about  each  which 
the  Virgo  Maxima  used  to  read  to  the  younger  ones 
from  a  great  rolled  manuscript,  that  was  kept  in  an 
ancient  bronze  box,  or  which  she  sometimes  told  in  the 
moonlight  on  summer  nights  when  the  maidens  sat 
together  in  the  court. 

She  closed  her  eyes,  her  forehead  resting  against  the 


A   STOBY   OF   MODERK  BOMB  337 

iron  bars,  and  she  saw  it  all  as  it  had  been ;  she  looked 
again  and  the  desolation  hurt  her  and  shocked  her  as 
when  in  a  wilderness  an  explorer  comes  suddenly  upon 
the  bleached  bones  of  one  who  had  gone  before  him  and 
had  been  his  friend.     She  sighed  and  turned  away. 

The  dream  was  better  than  the  reality,  in  that  and  in 
many  other  ways.  She  was  overcome  by  the  sense  of 
utter  failure,  as  she  sat  down  on  the  steps  below  the 
raised  floor,  lonely  and  forlorn. 

It  was  all  a  comedy  now,  a  miserable  petty  play  to 
hide  a  great  truth  from  herself  and  others.  She  had 
begun  her  part  already,  writing  her  wretched  little 
notes  to  poor  Guido.  She  knew  that,  ill  as  he  was, 
the  words  that  seemed  lies  to  her  were  ten  times  true 
to  him,  and  that  he  exaggerated  every  enquiry  after  his 
condition  and  each  expression  of  hope  for  his  recovery 
into  signs  of  loving  solicitude,  that  he  had  already  for- 
given what  he  thought  her  caprice,  and  was  looking 
forward  to  his  marriage  as  more  certain  than  ever,  in 
spite  of  her  message.  It  was  all  a  vile  trick  meant  to 
save  his  feelings  and  help  him  to  get  well,  and  she 
hated  and  despised  it. 

She  was  playing  a  part  with  Lamberti,  too,  and  that 
was  no  better.  She  had  fallen  low  enough  to  love  a 
man  who  did  not  care  a  straw  for  her,  and  it  needed  all 
the  energy  of  character  she  had  left  to  keep  him  from 
finding  it  out.  Nothing  could  be  more  contemptible. 
If  any  one  but  he  had  told  her  that  she  ought  to  go 
back  to  the  appearance  of  an  engagement  with  Guido, 
she  would  have  refused  to  do  it.     But  Lamberti  domi- 


338  CECILIA 

nated  her ;  he  had  only  to  say,  "  Do  this,"  and  she  did 
it,  "  Say  this,"  and  she  said  it,  whether  it  were  true  or 
not.  She  complained  bitterly  in  her  heart  that  if  he 
had  bidden  her  lie  to  her  mother,  she  would  have  lied, 
because  she  had  no  will  of  her  own  when  she  was  with 
him. 

And  this  was  the  end  of  her  inspired  visions,  of  her 
lofty  ideals,  of  her  magnificent  rules  of  life,  of  her  studies 
of  philosophy,  her  meditations  upon  religion,  and  her 
dream  of  the  last  Vestal.  She  was  nothing  but  a  weak 
girl,  under  the  orders  of  a  man  she  loved  against  her 
will,  and  ready  to  do  things  she  despised  whenever  he 
chose  to  give  his  orders.  He  cared  for  no  human  being 
except  his  one  friend.  He  was  not  to  be  blamed  for 
that,  of  course,  but  he  was  utterly  indifferent  to  every 
one  else  where  his  friend  was  concerned;  every  one 
must  lie,  or  steal,  or  do  murder,  if  that  could  help 
Guido  to  get  well.  She  was  only  one  of  his  instru- 
ments, and  he  probably  had  others.  She  was  sure  that 
half  the  women  in  Rome  loved  Lamberto  Lamberti  with- 
out daring  to  say  so.  It  was  a  satisfaction  to  have  heard 
from  every  one  that  he  cared  for  none  of  them.  People 
spoke  of  him  as  a  woman-hater,  and  one  woman  had  said 
that  he  had  married  a  negress  in  Africa,  and  was  the 
father  of  black  savages  with  red  hair.  That  accounted 
for  his  going  to  Somali  Land,  she  said,  and  for  his  know- 
ing so  much  about  the  habits  of  the  people  there.  Cecilia 
would  have  gladly  killed  the  lady  with  a  hat  pin. 

She  was  very  unhappy,  sitting  alone  on  the  steps  after 
the  sun  had  sunk  out  of  sight.     The  comedy  was  all  to 


A   STORY  OF   MODERN  ROME  339 

begin  over  again  in  an  hour,  for  she  must  go  home  and 
defend  her  conduct  when  her  mother  reproached  her 
with  not  acting  fairly,  and  laughed  at  the  idea  that 
Guido  was  in  danger  of  his  life.  To-morrow  she  would 
have  to  write  the  daily  note  to  him,  she  would  be 
obliged  to  compose  affectionate  phrases  which  would 
have  come  quite  naturally  if  she  could  have  treated 
him  merely  as  her  best  friend  ;  and  he  would  translate 
affection  to  mean  love,  and  another  lie  would  have  been 
told.  There  was  this,  at  least,  about  Guido,  that  he 
could  not  order  her  about  as  Lamberti  could.  There 
was  no  authority  in  his  eyes,  not  even  when  he  told  her 
not  to  catch  cold.  Perhaps  in  all  the  time  she  had  known 
him,  she  had  liked  him  best  when  he  had  been  angry,  at 
the  garden  party,  and  had  demanded  to  know  her  secret. 
But  she  would  not  acknowledge  that.  If  the  situation 
had  been  reversed  and  Lamberti,  instead  of  Guido,  had 
insisted  on  knowing  what  she  meant  to  hide,  she  could 
not  have  helped  telling  him.  It  was  an  abominable 
state  of  things,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  done,  and 
that  was  the  worst  part  of  it.  Lamberti  knew  Guido 
much  better  than  she  did,  and  if  Lamberti  told  her 
gravely  that  Guido  might  do  something  desperate  if  she 
broke  with  him,  she  was  obliged  to  believe  it  and  to  act 
accordingly.  There  might  not  be  one  chance  in  a  thou- 
sand, but  the  one-thousandth  chance  was  just  the  one 
that  might  have  its  turn.  One  might  disregard  it  for 
oneself,  but  one  had  no  right  to  overlook  it  where  an- 
other's life  was  concerned.  At  all  events  she  must  wait 
till  Guido  was  quite  well  again,  for  a  man  in  a  fever 


340  CECILIA 

really  might  do  anything  rash.  Why  did  Lamberti  not 
take  away  the  revolver  that  always  lay  ready  in  the 
drawer  ?  It  would  be  much  safer,  though  Guido  prob- 
ably had  plenty  of  other  weapons  that  would  serve  the 
purpose.  Guido  was  just  the  kind  of  pacific  man  who 
would  have  a  whole  armoury  of  guns  and  pistols,  as  if 
he  were  always  expecting  to  kill  something  or  somebody. 
She  was  sure  that  Lamberti,  who  had  killed  men  with 
his  own  hand,  did  not  keep  any  sort  of  weapon  in  his 
room.  If  he  had  a  revolver  of  his  own,  it  was  probably 
carefully  cleaned,  greased,  wrapped  up  and  put  away 
with  the  things  he  used  when  he  was  sent  on  expeditions. 
It  was  a  thousand  pities  that  Guido  was  not  exactly  like 
Lamberti ! 

Cecilia  rose  at  last,  weary  of  thinking  about  it  all, 
disgusted  with  her  own  weakness,  and  decidedly  ill- 
disposed  towards  her  fellow-creatures.  The  slightly 
flattened  upper  lip  was  compressed  rather  tightly 
against  the  fuller  lower  one  as  she  went  back  to  find 
Petersen,  and  as  she  held  her  head  very  high,  her  lids 
drooped  somewhat  scornfully  over  her  eyes.  No  one 
can  ever  be  as  supercilious  as  some  people  look  when 
they  are  angry  with  themselves  and  are  thinking  what 
mis^^rable  creatures  they  really  are. 

It  was  late  when  Cecilia  reached  the  Palazzo  Mas- 
simo and  went  in  on  foot  under  the  dark  carriageway 
after  Petersen  had  paid  the  cab  under  the  watchful  gaze 
of  the  big  liveried  porter.  The  Countess  was  already 
dressing  for  dinner,  and  Cecilia  went  to  her  own  room 
at  once.     The  consequence  was  that  she  did  not  know 


A   STOEY   OF   MODERN  EOME  341 

of  her  mother's  invitation  to  Lamberti,  until  she  came 
into  the  drawing-room  and  saw  the  two  together,  wait- 
ing for  her. 

"  Did  I  forget  to  tell  you  that  Signor  Lamberti  was 
coming  to  dinner?"  asked  her  mother. 

"  There  was  no  particular  reason  why  you  should 
have  told  me,"  she  answered  indifferently,  as  she  held 
out  her  hand  to  Lamberti.  "  It  is  not  exactly  a  dinner 
party !     How  is  he  ?  "  she  asked,  speaking  to  him. 

"  He  is  better  this  evening,  thank  you." 

Why  should  he  say  "  thank  you,"  as  if  Guido  were 
his  brother  or  his  father?  She  resented  it.  Surely 
there  was  no  need  for  continually  accentuating  the  fact 
that  Guido  was  the  only  person  living  for  whom  he  had 
the  slightest  natural  affection !  This  was  perhaps  exag- 
gerated, but  she  was  glad  of  it,  just  then. 

She,  who  would  have  given  all  for  him,  wished 
savagely  that  some  woman  would  make  him  fall  in  love 
and  treat  him  with  merciless  barbarity. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

Cecilia  felt  that  evening  as  if  she  could  resist  Lam- 
berti's  influence  at  last,  for  she  was  out  of  humour  with 
herself  and  with  every  one  else.  When  they  had  dined, 
and  had  said  a  multitude  of  uninteresting  things  about 
Guido,  for  they  were  all  under  a  certain  constraint 
while  the  meal  lasted,  they  came  back  to  the  drawing- 
room.  Lamberti  had  the  inscrutable  look  Cecilia  had 
lately  seen  in  his  face,  and  which  she  took  for  the  out- 
ward sign  of  his  indifference  to  anything  that  did  not 
concern  his  friend.  When  he  spoke  to  her,  he  looked 
at  her  as  if  she  were  a  chair  or  a  table,  and  when  he 
was  not  speaking  to  her  he  did  not  look  at  her  at 
all. 

In  the  drawing-room,  she  waited  her  opportunity  un- 
til her  mother  had  sat  down.  The  butler  had  set  the 
little  tray  with  the  coffee  and  three  cups  on  a  small 
three-legged  table.  On  pretence  that  the  latter  was 
unsteady,  Cecilia  carried  the  tray  to  another  place  at 
some  distance  from  her  mother.  Lamberti  followed 
her  to  take  the  Countess's  cup,  and  then  came  back 
for  his  own.  Cecilia  spoke  to  him  in  a  low  voice  while 
she  was  putting  in  the  sugar  and  pouring  out  the 
coffee,  a  duty  which  in  many  parts  of  Italy  and  France 
is  still  assigned  to  the  daughter  of  the  house,  and  re- 

342 


A   STOBY  OF  MODERK  ROME  343 

calls  a  time  when  servants  did  not  know  how  to  pre- 
pare the  beverage. 

"  Come  and  talk  to  me  presently,"  she  said.  "  I  am 
sure  you  have  more  to  tell  me  about  him." 

"  No,"  said  Lamberti,  not  taking  the  trouble  to  lower 
his  voice  much,  "  there  is  nothing  more  to  tell.  I  do 
not  think  I  have  forgotten  anything." 

He  stirred  his  cofifee  slowly,  but  with  evident  reluc- 
tance to  stay  near  her.  She  would  not  have  been  a 
human  woman  if  she  had  not  been  annoyed  by  his  cool 
manner,  and  a  shade  of  displeasure  passed  over  her 
face. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,"  she  answered.  "  I 
thought  you  would  understand." 

"  That  is  different." 

In  his  turn  he  showed  a  little  annoyance.  They 
went  back  together  to  the  Countess's  side,  carrying 
their  cups.  In  due  time  the  good  lady  went  to  write 
letters,  feeling  that  it  was  quite  safe  to  leave  her  daugh- 
ter with  Lamberti,  who  seemed  to  be  as  cold  as  ice,  and 
not  at  all  bent  on  making  himself  agreeable.  Besides, 
the  Countess  was  tired  of  the  situation,  and  could 
hardly  conceal  the  fact  that  she  reproached  Guido  for 
not  getting  well  sooner,  in  order  that  she  might  speak 
to  him  herself. 

There  was  silence  for  a  time  after  she  had  gone  into 
the  next  room,  while  Cecilia  and  Lamberti  sat  side  by 
side  on  the  sofa  she  had  left.  Neither  seemed  inclined 
to  speak  first,  for  both  felt  that  some  danger  was  at 
hand,  which  could  not  be  avoided,  but  which  must  be 


844  CECILIA 

approached  with  caution.  She  wished  that  he  would 
say  something,  for  she  was  not  at  all  sure  what  she 
meant  to  tell  him ;  but  he  was  silent,  which  was  natu- 
ral enough,  as  she  had  asked  for  the  interview. 

She  would  have  given  anything  to  have  seen  him 
somewhere  else,  in  new  surroundings,  anywhere  except 
in  her  own  drawing-room,  where  every  familiar  object 
oppressed  her  and  reminded  her  of  her  mistakes  and 
illusions.  She  felt  that  she  must  say  something,  but 
the  blood  rose  in  her  brain  and  confused  her.  He  saw 
her  embarrassment,  or  guessed  it. 

"  So  far  things  have  gone  better  than  I  expected," 
he  said  at  last,  "but  that  only  makes  the  end  more 
doubtful." 

She  turned  to  him  slowly  and  with  an  involuntary 
look  of  gratitude  for  having  broken  the  silence. 

"  I  mean,"  he  went  on,  "  that  since  Guido  is  so  ready 
to  grasp  at  any  straw  you  throw  him,  it  will  be  hard  to 
make  him  understand  you,  when  things  have  gone  a 
little  further." 

"  Is  that  all  you  mean  ?  "  She  asked  the  question 
almost  sharply. 

"Yes." 

"You  do  not  mean  that  you  still  wish  I  would 
marry  him  after — after  what  I  told  you  the  other 
evening?" 

The  interrogation  was  in  her  voice,  and  that  was 
hard,  and  demanded  an  answer.  Lamberti  looked  away, 
and  did  not  reply  at  once,  for  he  meant  to  tell  the  exact 
truth,  and  was  not  quite  sure  where  it  lay.     He  felt, 


A   STORY  OF   MODERN  ROME  345 

too,  that  her  manner  had  changed  notably  since  they 
had  last  talked,  and  though  he  had  no  intention  of 
taking  the  upper  hand,  it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  sub- 
mit to  any  dictation,  even  from  the  woman  he  loved. 

"  Answer  me,  please,"  said  Cecilia,  rather  imperiously. 

"Yes,  I  will.  I  wish  it  were  possible  for  you  to 
marry  him,  that  is  all." 

"  And  you  know  that  it  is  not." 

"  I  am  almost  sure  that  it  is  not." 

"  How  cautious  you  are  ! " 

"The  matter  is  serious.  But  you  said  that  you  had 
something  to  say  to  me.     What  is  it?  " 

"  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  am  sick  of  all  this  decep- 
tion, of  writing  notes  that  are  meant  to  deceive  a  man 
for  whom  I  have  the  most  sincere  friendship,  of  letting 
the  whole  world  think  that  I  will  do  what  I  would  not 
do,  if  I  were  to  die  for  it." 

He  looked  at  her,  then  clasped  his  hands  upon  his 
knees  and  shook  his  head. 

"  I  must  see  him,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "  I  must  see 
him  at  once,  and  you  must  help  me.  If  I  could  only 
speak  to  him  I  could  make  him  understand,  and  he 
would  be  glad  I  had  spoken,  and  we  should  always  be 
good  friends.  But  I  must  see  him  alone,  and  talk  to 
him.  Make  it  possible,  for  I  know  you  can.  I  am  not 
afraid  of  the  consequences.  Take  me  to  him.  It  is  the 
only  true  and  honest  thing  to  do  ! " 

Lamberti  believed  that  this  was  true ;  he  was  a  man 
of  action  and  had  no  respect  for  society's  prejudices, 
when  society  was  not  present  to  enforce  its  laws.     It 


346  CECILIA 

would  have  seemed  incredible  to  Romans  that  an  Italian 
girl  could  think  of  doing  what  Cecilia  proposed,  and 
if  it  were  ever  known,  her  reputation  would  be  gravely 
damaged.  But  Cecilia  was  not  like  other  young  girls  ; 
society  should  never  know  what  she  had  done,  and  she 
was  quite  right  in  saying  that  her  plan  was  really  the 
best  and  most  honourable. 

"  I  can  take  you  to  him,"  Lamberti  said.  "  I  suppose 
you  know  what  you  are  risking." 

"  Nothing,  if  I  go  with  you.  You  would  not  let  me 
run  any  risk." 

She  did  not  raise  her  voice,  she  hardly  changed  her 
tone,  but  nothing  she  had  ever  said  had  given  him  such 
a  thrilling  sensation  of  pleasure. 

"  Do  you  trust  me  as  much  as  that  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Yes,  as  much  as  that." 

She  smiled,  and  looked  down  at  her  hand,  and  then 
glanced  at  him  quickly,  and  almost  happily.  If  she  had 
studied  men  for  ten  years  she  could  not  have  found 
word  or  look  more  certain  to  touch  him  and  win  him  to 
her  way. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  rather  curtly,  for  he  was 
thinking  of  another  answer.  "If  I  take  you  to  Guido, 
what  shall  you  say  to  him  ?  " 

She  drew  herself  up  against  the  back  of  the  sofa,  but 
the  smile  still  lingered  on  her  lips. 

"You  must  trust  me,  too,"  she  answered.  "Do  you 
think  I  can  compose  set  speeches  beforehand?  When 
shall  we  go  ?     How  is  it  to  be  managed  ?  " 

"You  often  go  out  with  your  maid,  do  you  not? 
What  sort  of  woman  is  she  ?     A  dragon  ?  " 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  347 

"  No  !  "  Cecilia  laughed.  "  She  is  very  respectable 
and  nice,  and  thinks  I  am  perfection.  But  then,  she  is 
terribly  near-sighted,  and  cannot  wear  spectacles  be- 
cause they  fall  off  her  nose." 

"  Then  she  loses  her  way  easily,  I  suppose  ? "  said 
Lamberti,  too  much  intent  on  his  plans  to  be  amused 
at  trifles. 

"  Yes.     She  is  always  losing  her  way." 

"  That  might  easily  happen  to  her  in  the  Palazzo 
Farnese.  It  is  a  huge  place,  and  you  could  manage  to 
go  up  one  way  while  she  went  up  the  other.  Besides, 
there  is  a  lift  at  the  back,  not  to  mention  the  servants' 
staircases,  in  which  she  might  be  hopelessly  lost.  Can 
you  trust  her  not  to  lose  her  head  and  make  the  porters 
search  the  palace  for  you,  if  you  are  separated  from  her  ?  " 

'^  I  am  not  sure.  But  she  will  stay  wherever  I  tell  her 
to  wait  for  me.  That  might  be  better.  You  see,  my  only 
excuse  for  going  to  the  Palazzo  Farnese  would  be  to  see 
the  ambassador's  daughter,  and  she  is  in  the  country." 

"  I  think  she  must  have  come  to  town  for  a  day  or 
two,  for  I  met  her  this  afternoon.  That  is  a  good 
reason  for  going  to  see  her.  At  the  door  of  the  em- 
bassy send  your  maid  on  an  errand  that  will  take  an 
hour,  and  tell  her  to  wait  for  you  in  the  cab  at  the  gate. 
If  the  girl  is  at  home  you  need  not  stay  ten  minutes. 
Then  you  can  see  Guido  during  the  rest  of  the  time. 
It  will  be  long  enough,  and  besides,  the  maid  will  wait." 

"For  ever,  if  I  tell  her  to!  But  you,  where  shall 
you  be  ?  " 

"  You  will  meet  me  on  the  stairs  as  you  come  down 


848  CECILIA 

from  the  embassy.  Wear  something  simple  and  dark 
that  people  have  not  seen  you  wear  before,  and 
carry  a  black  parasol  and  a  guide-book.  Have  one  of 
those  brown  veils  that  tourists  wear  against  the  sun. 
Fold  it  up  neatly  and  put  it  into  the  pocket  of  the 
guide-book  instead  of  the  map,  or  pin  it  to  the  inside 
of  your  parasol.  You  can  put  it  on  as  soon  as  you 
have  turned  the  corner  of  the  stairs,  out  of  sight  of  the 
embassy  door,  for  the  footman  will  not  go  in  till  you 
are  as  far  as  that.  If  you  cannot  put  it  on  yourself,  I 
will  do  it  for  you." 

"  Do  you  know  how  to  put  on  a  woman's  veil  ? " 
Cecilia  asked,  with  a  little  laugh. 

"  Of  course  !  It  is  easy  enough.  I  have  often  fast- 
ened my  sister's  for  her  at  picnics." 

"  What  time  shall  I  come  ?  " 

"A  little  before  eleven.  Guido  cannot  be  ready 
before  that." 

"  But  he  has  a  servant,"  said  Cecilia,  suddenly  re- 
membering the  detail.     "  What  will  he  think  ?  " 

"  He  has  two,  but  they  shall  both  be  out,  and  I  shall 
have  the  key  to  his  door  in  my  pocket.  We  will  man- 
age that." 

''  Shall  you  be  sure  to  know  just  when  I  come  ?  " 

"I  shall  see  you,  but  you  will  not  see  me  till  we 
meet  on  the  landing." 

"  I  knew  you  could  manage  it,  if  you  only  would." 

"  It  is  simple  enough.  There  is  not  the  slightest 
risk,  if  you  will  do  exactly  what  I  have  told  you." 

It  seemed  easy  indeed,  and  Cecilia  was  almost  happy 


A  STORY  OF  MODERN  ROME  349 

at  the  thought  that  she  was  soon  to  be  freed  from  the 
intolerable  situation  into  which  she  allowed  herself  to 
be  forced.  She  was  very  grateful,  too,  and  beyond  her 
gratitude  was  the  unspeakable  satisfaction  in  the  man  she 
loved.  Instead  of  making  difficulties,  he  smoothed  them ; 
instead  of  prating  of  what  society  might  think,  he  would 
help  her  to  defy  it,  because  he  knew  that  she  was  right. 

"  I  should  like  to  thank  you,"  she  said  simply.  "  I 
do  not  know  how." 

He  seemed  to  say  something  in  answer,  in  a  rather 
discontented  way,  but  so  low  that  she  could  not  catch 
the  words. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  "  she  asked  unwisely. 

"  Nothing.  I  am  glad  to  be  of  service  to  you.  Say 
the  right  things  to  Guido;  for  you  are  going  to  do 
rather  an  eccentric  thing  in  order  to  say  them,  and  a 
mistake  would  be  fatal." 

He  spoke  almost  roughly,  but  she  was  not  offended. 
He  had  a  right  to  be  rough,  since  he  was  ready  to  do 
whatever  she  asked  of  him;  yet  not  understanding  him, 
while  loving  him,  her  instinct  made  her  wish  him 
really  to  know  how  pleased  she  was.  She  put  out  her 
hand  a  little  timidly  and  touched  his,  as  a  much  older 
woman  might  have  done.  To  her  surprise,  he  grasped 
it  instantly,  and  held  it  so  tightly  that  he  hurt  her  for 
a  moment.  He  dropped  it  then,  pushing  it  from  him 
as  his  hold  relaxed,  almost  throwing  it  off. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  Cecilia  asked,  surprised. 

But  at  that  moment  her  mother  entered  the  room 
from  the  boudoir. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

In  agreeing  to  the  dangerous  scheme,  Lamberti  had 
yielded  to  an  impulse  founded  upon  his  intuitive  know- 
ledge of  women,  and  not  at  all  upon  his  inborn  love  of 
anything  in  which  there  was  risk.  The  danger  was 
for  Cecilia,  not  for  himself,  in  any  case;  and  it  was 
real,  for,  if  it  should  ever  be  known  that  she  had  gone 
to  Guido's  rooms,  nothing  but  her  marriage  with  him 
would  silence  the  gossips.  Society  cannot  be  blamed 
for  drawing  a  line  somewhere,  considering  how  very 
far  back  it  sets  the  limit. 

Lamberti,  without  reasoning  about  it,  knew  that  no 
woman  ever  does  well  what  she  does  not  like  doing. 
If  he  persisted  in  making  Cecilia  attempt  to  break 
gradually  with  Guido,  she  would  soon  make  mistakes 
and  spoil  everything.  That  was  his  conviction.  She 
felt,  at  present,  that  if  she  could  see  Guido  face  to  face, 
she  could  persuade  him  to  give  her  up ;  and  the  prob- 
ability was  that  she  would  succeed,  or  else  that  she 
would  be  moved  by  real  pity  for  him  and  thus  become 
genuinely  ready  to  follow  Lamberti 's  original  advice. 
The  sensible  course  to  follow  was,  therefore,  to  help 
her  in  the  direction  she  had  chosen. 

Early  in  the  morning  Lamberti  was  at  his  friend's 
bedside.     Guido  was  much  better  now,  and  there  was 

350 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN  ROME  351 

no  risk  in  taking  him  to  his  sitting  room.  Lamberti 
suggested  this  before  saying  anything  else,  and  the 
doctor  came  soon  afterwards  and  approved  of  it.  By 
ten  o'clock  Guido  was  comfortably  installed  in  a  long 
cane  chair,  amongst  his  engravings  and  pictures,  very 
pale  and  thin,  but  cheerful  and  expectant.  As  he  had 
no  fever,  and  was  quite  calm,  Lamberti  told  him  frankly 
that  Cecilia  had  something  to  say  to  him  which  no  one 
could  say  for  her,  and  was  coming  herself.  He  was 
amazed  and  delighted  at  first,  and  then  was  angry  with 
Lamberti  for  allowing  her  to  come;  but,  as  the  latter 
explained  in  detail  how  her  visit  was  to  be  managed, 
his  fears  subsided,  and  he  looked  at  his  watch  with 
growing  impatience.  His  man  had  been  sitting  up 
with  him  at  night  since  his  illness  had  begun,  and  was 
easily  persuaded  to  go  to  bed  for  the  day.  The  other 
servant,  who  cooked  what  Guido  needed,  had  prepared 
everything  for  the  day,  and  had  gone  out.  He  always 
came  back  a  little  after  twelve  o'clock.  At  twenty 
minutes  to  eleven  Lamberti  took  the  key  of  the  door 
and  went  to  watch  for  Cecilia's  coming,  and  half  an 
hour  later  he  admitted  her  to  the  sitting  room,  shut  the 
door  after  her,  and  left  the  two  together.  He  went  and 
sat  down  in  the  outer  hall,  in  case  any  one  should  ring 
the  bell,  which  had  been  muffled  with  a  bit  of  soft 
leather  while  Guido  was  ill. 

Cecilia  stood  still  a  moment,  after  the  door  was  closed 
behind  her,  and  she  lifted  her  veil  to  see  her  way,  for 
there  was  not  much  light  in  the  room.  As  she  caught 
sight  of  Guido,  a  frank  smile  lighted  up  her  face  for 


362  CECILIA 

an  instant,  and  then  died  away  in  a  look  of  genuine 
concern  and  anxiety.  She  had  not  realised  how  much 
he  could  change  in  so  short  a  time,  in  not  more  than 
four  or  five  days.  She  came  forward  qnickly,  took  his 
hand,  and  bent  over  him,  looking  into  his  face.  His 
eyes  widened  with  pleasure  and  his  thin  fingers  lifted 
hers  to  his  lips. 

"You  have  been  very  ill,"  she  said,  "very,  very  ill  I 
I  had  no  idea  that  it  was  so  bad  as  this ! " 

"I  am  better,"  he  answered  gently.  "How  good  of 
you !     How  endlessly  good  of  you  to  come !  " 

"Nobody  saw  me,"  she  said,  by  way  of  answer. 

She  smoothed  the  old  pink  damask  cushion  under  his 
head,  and  instinctively  looked  to  see  if  he  had  all  he 
needed  within  reach,  before  she  thought  of  sitting  down 
in  the  chair  Lamberti  had  placed  ready  for  her. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  in  a  low  and  somewhat  anxious 
voice,  "you  did  not  mean  it?  You  were  out  of  temper, 
or  you  were  annoyed  by  something,  or  —  I  do  not  know  I 
Something  happened  that  made  you  write,  and  you  had 
sent  the  letter  before  you  knew  what  you  were  doing — " 

He  broke  off,  quite  sure  of  her  answer.  He  thought 
she  turned  pale,  though  the  light  was  not  strong  and 
brought  the  green  colour  of  the  closed  blinds  into  the 
room. 

"  Hush ! "  she  exclaimed  soothingly,  and  she  sat 
down  beside  him,  still  holding  his  hand.  "I  have 
come  expressly  to  talk  to  you  about  it  all,  because  let- 
ters only  make  misunderstandings,  and  there  must  not 
be  any  more  misunderstandings  between  us  two." 


A   STORY   OF  MODERN  ROME  353 

"No,  never  again  1  "  He  looked  up  witli  love  in  his 
hollow  eyes,  not  suspecting  what  she  meant.  "  I  have 
forgotten  all  that  was  in  that  letter,  and  I  wish  to  for- 
get it.  You  never  wrote  that  you  did  not  love  me,  nor 
that  you  loved  another  man.  It  is  all  gone,  quite  gone, 
and  I  shall  never  remember  it  again." 

Cecilia  sighed  and  gazed  into  his  face  sadly.  He 
looked  so  ill  and  weak  that  she  wondered  how  she 
could  be  cruel  enough  to  tell  him  the  truth,  though  she 
had  risked  her  good  name  to  get  a  chance  of  speaking 
plainly.  It  seemed  like  bringing  a  cup  of  cold  water 
to  the  lips  of  a  man  dying  of  thirst,  only  to  take  it 
away  again  untasted  and  leave  him  to  his  fate.  She 
pitied  him  with  all  her  heart,  but  there  was  nothing  in 
her  compassion  that  at  all  resembled  love.  It  was  the 
purest  and  most  friendly  affection,  of  the  sort  that  lasts 
a  lifetime  and  can  devote  itself  in  almost  any  sacrifice; 
but  it  was  all  quite  clear  and  comprehensible,  without 
the  smallest  element  of  the  inexplicable  attraction  that 
is  deaf,  and  dumb,  and,  above  all,  blind,  and  which 
proceeds  from  the  deep  prime  cause  and  mover  of 
nature,  and  mates  lions  in  the  wilderness  and  birds  in 
the  air,  and  men  and  women  among  their  fellows,  two 
and  two,  from  generation  to  generation. 

"Guido,"  said  Cecilia,  after  a  long  silence,  "do  you 
not  think  that  two  people  can  be  very,  very  fond  of 
each  other  all  their  lives,  and  trust  each  other,  and  like 
to  be  together  as  much  as  possible,  without  being 
married  ?  " 

She  spoke  quietly  and  steadily,  trying  to  make  her 
2a 


854  CECILIA 

voice  sound  more  gentle  than  ever  before;  but  there 
was  no  possibility  of  mistaking  her  meaning.  His  thin 
hand  started  and  shook  under  her  soothing  touch,  and 
then  drew  itself  away.  The  light  went  out  of  his  eyes 
and  the  rings  of  shadow  round  them  grew  visibly  darker 
as  he  turned  his  head  painfully  on  the  damask  cushion. 

"Is  that  what  you  have  come  to  say?  "  he  asked,  in  a 
groan. 

Cecilia  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  folded  her  hands. 
She  felt  as  if  she  had  killed  an  unresisting,  loving 
creature,  as  a  sacrifice  for  her  fault. 

"God  forgive  me  if  I  have  done  wrong,"  she  said, 
speaking  to  herself.     "I  only  mean  to  do  right." 

Guido  moved  his  head  on  his  cushion  again,  as  if 
suffering  unbearable  pain,  and  a  sort  of  harsh  laugh 
answered  her  words. 

"Your  God  will  forgive  you,"  he  said  bitterly,  after 
a  moment.  "Man  made  God  in  his  own  image,  and 
God  must  needs  obey  his  creator.  When  you  cannot 
forgive  yourself,  you  set  up  an  image  and  ask  it  to 
pardon  you.     I  do  not  wonder." 

The  cruel  words  hurt  her  in  more  ways  than  one,  and 
she  drew  her  breath  between  her  teeth  as  if  she  had 
struck  unawares  against  something  sharp  and  was  re- 
pressing a  cry  of  pain.  Then  there  was  silence  for  a 
long  time. 

"  Why  do  you  stay  here  ?  "  Guido  asked,  in  a  low 
tone,  not  looking  at  her.  "  You  cannot  have  anything 
more  to  say.  You  have  done  what  you  came  to  do= 
Let  me  be  alone." 


A    STOKY   OF    MODERN   EOMB  855 

"Guido!" 

She  touched  his  shoulder  gently  as  he  lay  turned  from 
her,  but  he  moved  and  pushed  her  away. 

"It  cannot  give  you  pleasure  to  see  me  suffer,"  he 
said.     "Please  go  away." 

"  How  can  I  leave  you  like  this  ?  " 

There  was  despair  in  her  voice,  and  the  sound  of  tears 
that  would  never  come  to  her  eyes.  He  did  not  answer. 
She  would  not  go  away  without  trying  to  appease  him, 
and  she  made  a  strong  effort  to  collect  her  thoughts. 

"You  are  angry  with  me,  of  course,"  she  began. 
"  You  despise  me  for  not  having  known  my  own  mind, 
but  you  cannot  say  anything  that  I  have  not  said  to 
myself.  I  ought  to  have  known  long  ago.  All  I  can 
say  in  self-defence  now  is  that  it  is  better  to  have  told 
you  the  truth  before  we  were  married  than  to  have 
been  obliged  to  confess  it  afterwards,  or  else  to  have 
lied  to  you  all  my  life  if  I  could  not  find  courage  to 
speak.  It  is  better,  is  it  not?  Oh,  say  that  it  is 
better!" 

"  It  would  have  been  much  better  if  neither  of  us  had 
ever  been  born,"  Guido  answered. 

"I  only  ask  you  to  say  that  you  would  rather  be  suf- 
fering now  than  have  had  me  tell  you  in  a  year  that  I 
was  an  unfaithful  wife  at  heart.  That  is  all.  Will 
you  not  say  it?     It  is  all  I  ask." 

"Why  should  you  ask  anything  of  me,  even  that? 
The  only  kindness  you  can  show  me  now  is  to  go  away." 

He  would  not  look  at  her.  His  throat  was  parched, 
and  he  put  out  his  hand  to  take  the  tumbler  from  the 


356  CECILIA 

little  table  on  the  other  side  of  his  long  chair.  In- 
stantly she  rose  and  tried  to  help  him,  but  he  would 
not  let  her. 

"lam  not  so  weak  as  that,"  he  said  coldly.  "My 
hand  is  steady  enough,  thank  you." 

She  sighed  and  drew  back.  Perhaps  it  would  be 
better  to  leave  him,  as  he  wished  that  she  should,  but 
his  words  recalled  Lamberti's  warning;  his  hand  was 
steady,  he  said,  and  that  meant  that  it  was  steady 
enough  to  take  the  pistol  from  the  drawer  in  the  little 
table  and  use  it.  He  believed  in  nothing,  in  no  future, 
in  no  retribution,  in  no  God,  and  he  v/as  ill,  lonely, 
and  in  despair  through  her  fault.  His  friend  knew 
him,  and  the  danger  was  real.  The  conviction  flashed 
through  her  brain  that  if  she  left  him  alone  he  would 
probably  kill  himself,  and  she  fancied  him  lying  there 
dead,  on  the  red  tiles.  She  fancied,  too,  Lamberti's 
face,  when  he  should  come  to  tell  her  vvhat  had  hap- 
pened, for  he  would  surely  come,  and  to  the  end  of  her 
life  and  his  he  would  never  forgive  her. 

She  stood  still,  wavering  and  unstrung  by  her 
thoughts,  looking  steadily  down  at  Guido's  head. 

"Since  you  will  not  go  away,"  he  said  at  last, 
"answer  me  one  question.  Tell  me  the  name  of  the 
man  who  has  come  between  us." 

Cecilia  bit  her  lip  and  turned  her  face  from  the  light. 

"Then  it  is  true,"  Guido  said,  after  a  silence. 
"  There  is  a  man  whom  you  really  love,  a  man  whom 
you  would  really  marry  and  to  whom  you  could  really 
be  faithful." 


A   STOHY   OF   MODEEN   ROME  357 

"Yes.    It  is  true.     Everything  I  wrote  you  is  true.'^ 

"Who  is  he?" 

She  was  silent  again. 

"  Do  you  hope  that  I  shall  ever  forgive  you  for  what 
you  have  done  to  me?  " 

"  Yes.     I  pray  heaven  that  you  may !  " 

"  Leave  heaven  out  of  the  question.  You  have  turned 
my  life  into  something  like  what  you  call  hell.  Do  I 
know  the  man  you  love  ?  " 

"Yes,"  Cecilia  answered,  after  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion. 

"  Do  I  often  meet  him  ?  Have  I  met  him  often  since 
you  have  loved  him  ?  " 

She  said  nothing,  but  stood  still  with  bent  head  and 
clasped  hands. 

"  Why  do  you  not  answer  me  ?  "  he  asked  sternly. 

"You  must  never  know  his  name,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  Have  I  no  right  to  know  who  has  ruined  my  life  ?  " 

"I  have.     Blame  me.     Visit  it  on  me." 

He  laughed,  not  harshly  now,  but  gently  and  sar- 
castically. 

"  You  women  are  fond  of  offering  yourselves  as  ex- 
piatory victims  for  your  own  sins,  for  you  know  very 
well  that  we  shall  not  hurt  you !  After  all,  you  cannot 
help  yourself  if  you  have  fallen  in  love  with  some  one 
else.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  sorry  for  you.  I  prob- 
ably shall  be,  when  I  know  who  he  is !  " 

He  laughed  again,  already  despising  the  man  she  had 
preferred  in  his  stead.     His  words  had  cut  her,  but  she 


358  CECILIA 

said  nothing,  for  she  was  in  dread  lest  the  slightest 
word  should  betray  the  truth. 

"You  say  that  I  know  him,"  Guido  continued,  his 
cheeks  beginning  to  flush  feverishly,  "and  you  would 
not  answer  me  when  I  asked  you  if  I  had  often  met  him 
since  you  have  loved  him.  That  means  that  I  have,  of 
course.  You  were  too  honest  to  lie,  and  too  much 
frightened  to  tell  the  truth.  I  meet  him  often.  Then 
he  is  one  of  a  score  of  men  whom  I  know  better  than 
all  the  others.  There  are  not  many  men  whom  I  meet 
often.  It  cannot  be  very  hard  to  find  out  which  of  them 
it  is." 

Cecilia  turned  her  face  away,  resting  one  hand  on 
the  back  of  the  chair,  and  a  deep  blush  rose  in  her 
cheeks.     But  she  spoke  steadily. 

"You  can  never  find  out,"  she  said.  "He  does  not 
love  me.  He  does  not  guess  that  I  love  him.  But  I 
will  not  answer  any  more  questions,  for  you  must  not 
know  who  he  is.'" 

"Why  not?  Do  you  think  I  shall  quarrel  with  him 
and  make  him  fight  a  duel  with  me  ?  " 

"Perhaps." 

"That  is  absurd,"  Guido  answered  quietly.  "I  do 
not  value  my  life  much,  I  believe,  but  I  have  not  the 
least  inclination  to  risk  it  in  such  a  ridiculous  way. 
The  man  has  injured  me  without  knowing  it.  You 
have  taken  from  me  the  one  thing  I  treasured  and  you 
are  keeping  it  for  him;  but  he  does  not  want  it,  he 
does  not  even  know  that  it  is  his,  he  is  not  responsible 
for  your  caprices." 


A   STOKY   OF   MODEKN   BOMB  359 

"Not  caprice,  Guido!     Do  not  call  it  that!  " 

"  I  do.  Forgive  me  for  being  frank.  Say  that  I  am 
ill,  if  you  please,  as  an  excuse  for  me.  I  call  such 
things  by  their  right  name,  caprices.  If  you  are  going 
to  be  subject  to  them  all  your  life,  you  had  better 
go  into  a  convent  before  you  throw  away  your  good 
name." 

"  I  have  not  deserved  that !  " 

She  turned  upon  him  now,  with  flashing  eyes.  He 
had  raised  himself  upon  one  elbow  and  was  looking  at 
her  with  cool  contempt. 

"You  have  deserved  that  and  more,"  he  answered, 
"and  if  you  insist  upon  staying  here  you  must  hear 
what  I  choose  to  say.  I  advised  you  to  go  away,  but 
you  would  not.  I  have  no  apology  to  make  for  telling 
you  the  truth,  but  you  are  free  to  go.  Lamberti  is  in 
the  hall  and  will  see  you  to  your  carriage." 

There  was  something  royal  in  his  anger  and  in  his 
look  now,  which  she  could  not  help  respecting,  in  spite 
of  his  words.  She  had  thought  that  he  would  behave 
very  differently;  she  had  looked  for  some  passionate 
outburst,  perhaps  for  some  unmanly  weakness,  excus- 
able since  he  was  so  ill,  and  more  in  accordance  with 
his  outwardly  gentle  character.  She  had  thought  that 
because  he  had  made  his  friend  speak  to  her  for  him  he 
lacked  energy  to  speak  for  himself.  But  now  that  the 
moment  had  come,  he  showed  himself  as  manly  and 
determined  as  ever  Lamberti  could  be,  and  she  could 
not  help  respecting  him  for  it.  Doubtless  Lamberti 
had  always  known  what  was  in  his  friend's  nature, 


360  CECILIA 

below  the  indolent  surface.  Perhaps  he  was  like  his 
father,  the  old  king.     But  Cecilia  was  proud,  too. 

"If  I  have  stayed  too  long,"  she  said,  facing  him, 
"  it  was  because  I  came  here  at  some  risk  to  confess  my 
fault,  and  hoped  for  your  forgiveness.  I  shall  always 
hope  for  it,  as  long  as  we  both  live,  but  I  shall  not  ask 
for  it  again.  I  had  thought  that  you  would  accept  my 
devoted  friendship  instead  of  what  I  cannot  give  you 
and  never  gave  you,  though  I  believed  that  I  did. 
But  you  will  not  take  what  I  offer.  We  had  better 
part  on  that  rather  than  risk  being  enemies.  You  have 
already  said  one  thing  which  you  will  regret  and  which 
I  shall  always  remember.     Good-bye." 

She  held  out  her  hand  frankly,  and  he  took  it  and 
kept  it  a  moment,  while  their  eyes  met,  and  he  spoke 
more  gently. 

"  I  said  too  much.  I  am  sorry.  I  shall  forgive  you 
when  I  do  not  love  you  any  more.     Good-bye." 

He  let  her  hand  fall  and  looked  away. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said. 

She  left  his  side  and  went  towards  the  door,  her  head 
a  little  bent.  As  she  laid  her  hand  upon  the  handle, 
and  looked  back  at  Guido  once  again,  it  turned  in 
her  fingers  and  was  drawn  quickly  away  from  them. 
She  started  and  turned  her  head  to  see  who  was 
there. 

Lamberti  stood  before  her,  and  immediately  pushed 
her  back  into  the  room  and  shut  the  door,  visibly 
disturbed. 

"This  wayl  "  he  said  quickly,  in  an  undertone. 


I 


A   STORY  OF   MODERN  ROME  361 

He  led  her  swiftly  to  another  door,  which  he  opened 
for  her  and  closed  as  soon  as  she  had  passed. 

"Wait  for  me  there!  "  he  said,  as  she  went  in. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Guido  rather  faintly, 
when  he  realised  what  his  friend  had  done. 

''Her  mother  is  in  the  hall,"  Lamberti  said.  "Do 
not  be  startled,  she  knows  nothing.  She  insists  on 
seeing  for  herself  how  you  are.  She  says  her  daughter 
begged  her  to  come." 

"  Tell  her  I  am  too  ill  to  see  her,  please,  and  thank 
her  very  much.  It  is  all  over,  Lamberti,  we  have 
parted." 

A  dark  flush  rose  in  Lamberti's  face. 

"You  must  see  the  Countess,"  he  said  hurriedly. 
"I  am  sorry,  but  unless  she  comes  here,  her  daughter 
cannot  get  out  without  being  seen.  We  cannot  leave 
her  in  your  room.  I  will  not  do  it,  for  your  man  may 
wake  up  and  go  there.  There  is  no  time  to  be  lost 
either!" 

"Bring  the  Countess  in,"  said  Guido,  with  an  effort, 
and  moving  uneasily  on  his  couch. 

He  felt  that  nothing  was  spared  him.  In  the  few 
seconds  that  elapsed,  he  tried  to  decide  what  he  should 
say  to  the  Countess,  and  how  he  could  account  for 
knowing  that  Cecilia  had  now  definitely  broken  off  the 
engagement.  Before  he  had  come  to  any  conclusion 
the  Countess  was  ushered  in,  rosy  and  smiling,  but  a 
little  timid  at  finding  herself  in  a  young  bachelor's 
quarters. 

Meanwhile,  Cecilia  was  in  Guido's  bedroom.      An 


362  CECILIA 

older  woman  might  have  suspected  some  ignoble 
treachery,  but  her  perfect  innocence  protected  her 
from  all  fear.  Lamberti  would  not  have  brought  her 
there  in  such  a  hurry  unless  there  had  been  some  abso- 
lute necessity  for  getting  her  out  of  sight  at  once. 
Undoubtedly  some  visitor  had  come  who  could  not  be 
turned  away.  Perhaps  it  was  the  doctor.  Moreover, 
she  was  too  much  disturbed  by  what  had  taken  place 
to  pay  much  attention  to  w^hat  was,  after  all,  a  detail. 

She  looked  about  her  and  saw  that  there  was  another 
door  by  which  Lamberti  would  presently  enter  to  let 
her  out.  There  was  the  great  bed  with  the  coverlet  of 
old  arras  displaying  the  royal  arms,  and  beside  it  stood 
a  small  table  of  mahogany  inlaid  with  brass.  It  had 
tall  and  slender  legs  that  ended  below  in  little  brass 
lions'  paws,  and  it  had  a  single  drawer. 

Without  hesitation  she  went  and  opened  it.  Lam- 
berti had  been  right.  There  was  the  revolver,  a  silver- 
mounted  weapon  with  an  ivory  handle,  much  more  for 
ornament  than  use,  but  quite  effective  enough  for  the 
purpose  to  which  Guido  might  put  it.  Beside  it  lay  a 
little  pile  of  notes  in  their  envelopes,  and  she  involun- 
tarily recognised  her  own  handwriting.  He  had  kept 
all  she  had  written  to  him  within  his  reach  while  he 
had  been  ill,  and  the  thought  pained  her.  The  revolver 
was  a  very  light  one,  made  with  only  five  chambers. 
She  took  it  and  examined  it  when  she  had  shut  the 
drawer  again,  and  she  saw  that  it  was  fully  loaded. 
Old  Fortiguerra  had  taught  her  to  use  firearms  a  little, 
and  she  knew  how  to  load  and  unload  them.      She 


A   STOKY   OF   MODERN  KOME  363 

slipped  the  cartridges  out  quickly  and  tied  them  to- 
gether in  her  handkerchief,  and  then  dropped  them  into 
her  parasol  and  the  revolver  after  them. 

She  went  to  the  tall  mirror  in  the  door  of  the  ward- 
robe and  began  to  arrange  her  veil,  expecting  Lamberti 
every  moment.  She  had  hardly  finished  when  he  en- 
tered and  beckoned  to  her.  She  caught  up  her  parasol 
by  the  middle  so  as  to  hold  its  contents  safely,  and  in 
a  few  seconds  she  was  outside  the  front  door  of  the 
apartment.     Lamberti  drew  a  breath  of  relief. 

"  Take  those !  "  she  said  quickly,  producing  the  pis- 
tol and  the  cartridges.     "He  must  not  have  them." 

Lamberti  took  the  weapon  and  put  it  into  his  pocket, 
and  held  the  parasol,  while  she  untied  the  handkerchief 
and  gave  him  the  contents.  Both  began  to  go  down- 
stairs. 

"I  had  better  tell  you  who  came,"  Lamberti  said,  as 
they  went.  "You  will  be  surprised.  It  was  your 
mother." 

"  My  mother !  "  Cecilia  stopped  short  on  the  step  she 
had  reached.     "  I  did  not  think  she  meant  to  come !  " 

She  went  on,  and  Lamberti  kept  by  her  side. 

"You  can  seem  surprised  when  she  tells  you,"  he 
said.  "  You  have  definitely  broken  your  engagement, 
then?     Guido  had  time  to  tell  me  so." 

"  Yes,  I  could  not  lie  to  him.  It  was  very  hard,  but 
I  am  glad  it  is  all  over,  though  he  is  very  angry  now." 

They  reached  the  last  landing  before  the  court  with- 
out meeting  any  one,  and  she  paused  again.  He  won- 
dered what  expression  was  on  her  face  while  she  spoke, 


864  CECILIA 

for  he  could  scarcely  see  the  outline  of  her  features 
through  the  veil. 

"Thank  you  again,"  she  said.  "We  may  not  meet 
for  a  long  time,  for  my  mother  and  I  shall  go  away 
at  once,  and  I  suppose  we  shall  not  come  back  next 
winter."  She  spoke  rather  bitterly  now.  "My  repu- 
tation is  damaged,  I  fancy,  because  I  have  refused  to 
marry  a  man  I  do  not  love !  " 

"I  will  take  care  of  your  reputation,"  Lamberti 
answered,  as  if  he  were  saying  the  most  natural  thing 
in  the  world. 

"  It  is  hardly  your  place  to  do  that,"  Cecilia  answered, 
much  surprised. 

"It  may  not  be  my  right,"  Lamberti  said,  "as  people 
consider  those  things.  But  it  is  my  place,  as  Guido's 
friend  and  yours,  as  the  only  man  alive  who  is  devoted 
to  you  both." 

"I  am  more  grateful  than  I  can  tell  you.  But  please 
let  people  say  what  they  like  of  me,  and  do  not  take 
my  defence.  You,  of  all  the  men  I  know,  must 
not." 

"Why  not  I,  of  all  men?    I,  of  all  men,  will." 

She  was  standing  with  her  back  to  the  wall  on  the 
landing,  and  he  was  facing  her  now.  His  face  looked 
a  little  more  set  and  determined  than  usual,  and  he  was 
rather  pale,  and  he  stood  sturdily  still  before  her.  She 
could  see  his  face  through  her  veil,  though  he  could 
hardly  distinguish  hers.  He  felt  for  a  moment  as  if  he 
were  talking  to  a  sort  of  lay  figure  that  represented 
her  and  could  not  answer  him. 


A  STORY  OF  MODERN  ROME  365 

"  I,  of  all  men,  will  take  care  that  no  one  says  a  word 
against  you,"  he  said,  as  she  was  silent. 

"But  why?     Why  you?" 

"  You  have  definitely  given  up  all  idea  of  marrying 
Guido?  Absolutely?  For  ever?  You  are  sure,  in 
your  own  conscience,  that  he  has  no  sort  of  claim  on 
you  left,  and  that  he  knows  it?  " 

"Yes,  yes!     But  —  " 

"  Then,"  he  said,  not  heeding  her,  "as  you  and  I  may 
not  meet  again  for  a  long  time,  and  as  it  cannot  do  you 
the  least  harm  to  know  it,  and  as  you  will  have  no  right 
to  feel  that  I  shall  be  lacking  in  respect  to  you,  if  I  say 
it,  I  am  going  to  give  myself  the  satisfaction  of  telling 
you  something  I  have  taken  great  pains  to  hide  since 
we  first  met." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Cecilia,  nervously. 

"It  is  a  very  simple  matter,  and  one  that  will  not 
interest  you  much." 

He  paused  one  moment,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the 
brown  veil,  where  he  knew  that  hers  were. 

"I  love  you." 

Cecilia  started  violently,  and  put  out  one  hand 
against  the  wall  behind  her. 

"Do  not  be  frightened,  Contessina,"  he  said  gently. 
"  Many  men  will  say  that  to  you  before  you  are  old. 
But  none  of  them  will  mean  it  more  truly  than  I. 
Shall  we  go?  Your  mother  may  not  stay  long  with 
Guido." 

He  moved,  expecting  her  to  go  on,  but  she  leaned 
against  the  wall  where  she  stood,  and  she  stared  at  his 


366  CECILIA 

face  through  her  veil.  For  an  instant  she  thought  she 
was  going  to  faint,  for  her  heart  stopped  beating  and 
the  blood  left  her  head.  She  did  not  know  whether  it 
was  happiness,  or  surprise,  or  fear  that  paralysed  her, 
when  his  simple  words  revealed  the  vastness  of  the 
mistake  in  which  she  had  lived,  and  the  immensity  of 
joy  she  had  missed  by  so  little.  She  pressed  her  hand 
flat  against  the  wall  beside  her,  sure  that  if  she  moved 
it  she  must  fall. 

"Have  I  offended  you,  Signorina?"  Lamberti  asked, 
and  the  low  tones  shook  a  little. 

She  could  not  speak  yet,  but  his  voice  seemed  to 
steady  her,  and  her  heart  beat  again.  As  if  she  were 
making  a  great  effort  her  hand  slowly  left  the  wall,  and 
she  stretched  it  out  towards  him,  silently  asking  for 
his.  He  did  not  understand,  but  he  took  it  and  held  it 
quietly,  coming  a  little  nearer  to  her. 

"  You  have  forgiven  me,"  he  said.  "  Thank  you. 
You  are  kind.     Good-bye." 

But  then  her  fingers  closed  on  his  with  almost  frantic 
pressure. 

"  No,  no !  "  she  cried.  "  Not  yet !  One  moment 
more ! " 

Still  he  did  not  understand,  but  he  felt  the  blood 
rising  and  singing  in  his  heart  like  the  tide  when  it  is 
almost  high.  A  strange  expectation  filled  him,  as  of  a 
great  change  in  his  whole  being  that  must  come  in  the 
most  fearful  pain,  or  else  in  a  happiness  almost  unbear- 
able, something  swelling,  bursting,  overwhelming,  and 
enormous  beyond  imagination. 


A   STORY  OF  MODERN  ROME  367 

She  did  not  know  that  she  was  drawing  him  nearer 
to  her,  she  would  have  blushed  scarlet  at  the  thought ; 
he  did  not  know  that  his  feet  moved,  that  he  was  quite 
close  to  her,  that  she  was  clutching  his  hand  and  press- 
ing it  upon  her  own  heart.  They  did  not  see  what 
they  were  doing.  They  were  standing  together  by  a 
marble  pillar  in  the  Vestals'  House.  They  were  out  in 
the  firmament  beyond  worlds,  not  seeing,  not  hearing, 
not  touching,  but  knowing  and  one  in  knowledge. 

The  veil  touched  his  cheek  and  lightly  pressed  against 
it.  It  was  the  Vestal's  veil.  He  had  felt  it  in  dreams, 
between  his  face  and  hers.  Then  the  world  broke  into 
visible  light,  and  he  heard  her  whisper  in  his  ear. 

"  That  was  my  secret.     You  know  it  now." 

A  distant  footfall  echoed  from  far  up  the  stone  stair- 
case. Once  more  as  she  heard  it  she  pressed  his  hand 
to  her  heart  with  all  her  might,  and  he,  with  his  left 
round  her  neck,  drew  her  veiled  face  against  his  and 
held  it  there  an  instant  in  simple  pressure,  not  trying 
to  kiss  her. 

Then  those  two  separated  and  went  down  the  remain- 
ing steps  in  silence,  side  by  side,  and  very  demurely,  as 
if  nothing  had  happened.  The  Countess's  brougham 
was  in  the  courtyard,  and  the  porter,  just  going  into 
his  lodge  under  the  archway,  touched  his  big-visored 
cap  to  Lamberti  and  glanced  at  Cecilia  carelessly  as 
they  went  out.  Petersen  was  sitting  in  an  open  cab  in 
the  blazing  sun,  under  a  large  white  parasol  lined  with 
green  cotton,  and  her  mistress  was  seated  beside  her  be- 
fore she  had  time  to  rise.     Cecilia  had  quickly  turned 


CECILIA 

up  her  veil  over  the  brim  of  her  hat  as  soon  as  she  had 
passed  the  porter's  lodge,  for  he  knew  her  face  and  she 
did  not  wish  him  to  see  her  go  out  with  Lamberti. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone  as 
Lamberti  stood  hat  in  hand  in  the  sun  by  the  step  of  the 
cab.  "  Palazzo  Massimo,"  she  called  out  to  the  coach- 
man. 

She  nodded  to  Lamberti  indifferently,  and  the  cab 
drove  quickly  away  to  the  right,  rattling  over  the  white 
paving-stones  of  the  Piazza  Farnese  in  the  direction  of 
San  Carlo  a  Catinari. 

"  Did  you  see  your  mother  ?  "  Petersen  asked.  ''  She 
stopped  the  carriage  and  called  me  when  she  saw  me, 
and  she  said  she  was  going  to  ask  after  Signor  d'Este. 
I  said  you  had  gone  up  to  the  embassy." 

"  No,"  Cecilia  answered,  "  I  did  not  see  her.  We 
shall  be  at  home  before  she  is." 

She  did  not  speak  again  on  the  way.  Petersen  was 
too  near-sighted  and  unsuspicious  to  see  that  she  sur- 
reptitiously loosened  the  brown  veil  from  her  hat,  got 
it  down  beside  her  on  the  other  side,  and  rolled  it  up 
into  a  ball  with  one  hand.  Somehow,  when  she  reached 
her  own  door,  it  was  inside  the  parasol,  just  where  the 
revolver  had  been  half  an  hour  earlier. 

Lamberti  put  on  his  straw  hat  and  glanced  indiffer- 
ently at  the  departing  cab  as  he  turned  away,  quite  sure 
that  Cecilia  would  not  look  round.  He  went  back  into 
the  palace,  feeling  for  a  cigar  in  his  outer  breast  pocket. 
His  hands  felt  numb  with  cold  under  the  scorching  sun, 
and  he  knew  that  he  was  taking  pains  to  look  indifferent 


A   STORY  OF   MODERN  ROME  369 

and  to  move  as  if  nothing  extraordinary  had  happened 
to  him ;  for  in  a  few  minutes  he  would  be  face  to  face 
with  Guido  d'Este  and  the  Countess  Fortiguerra.  He  lit 
his  cigar  under  the  archway,  and  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke 
before  him  as  he  turned  into  the  staircase ;  but  on  the 
first  landing  he  stopped,  just  where  he  had  stood  with 
Cecilia.  He  paused,  his  cigar  between  his  teeth,  his 
legs  a  little  apart  as  if  he  were  on  deck  in  a  sea-way, 
and  his  hands  behind  him.  He  looked  curiously  at  the 
wall  where  she  had  leaned  against  it,  and  he  smoked 
vigorously.  At  last  he  took  out  a  small  pocket  knife 
and  with  the  point  of  the  blade  scratched  a  little  cross 
on  the  hard  surface,  looked  at  it,  touched  it  again  and 
was  satisfied,  returned  the  knife  to  his  pocket,  and  went 
quietly  upstairs.  Most  seafaring  men  do  absurdly  sen- 
timental things  sometimes.  Lamberti's  expression  had 
neither  softened  nor  changed  while  he  was  scratching 
the  mark,  and  when  he  went  on  his  way  he  looked  pre- 
cisely as  he  did  when  he  was  going  up  the  steps  of  the 
Ministry  to  attend  a  meeting  of  the  Commission.  He 
had  good  nerves,  as  he  had  told  the  specialist  whom 
he  had  consulted  in  the  spring. 

But  he  would  have  given  much  not  to  meet  Guido 
for  a  day  or  two,  though  he  did  not  in  the  least  mind 
meeting  the  Countess.  Cecilia  could  keep  a  secret  as 
well  as  he  himself,  almost  too  well,  and  there  was  not 
the  slightest  danger  that  her  mother  should  guess  the 
truth  from  the  behaviour  of  either  of  them,  even  when 
together.  Nor  would  Guido  guess  it  for  that  matter ; 
that  was  not  what  Lamberti  was  thinking  of  just  then. 
2b 


370  CECILIA 

He  felt  that  chance,  or  fate,  had  made  him  the 
instrument  of  a  sort  of  betrayal  for  which  he  was  not 
responsible,  and  as  he  had  never  been  in  such  a  posi- 
tion in  his  life,  even  by  accident,  it  was  almost  as  bad 
at  first  as  if  he  had  intentionally  taken  Cecilia  from 
his  friend.  He  had  always  been  instinctively  sure  that 
she  would  love  him  some  day,  but  when  he  had  at 
last  spoken  he  had  really  not  had  the  least  idea  that 
she  already  loved  him.  He  had  acted  on  an  impulse 
as  soon  as  he  was  quite  sure  that  she  would  never 
marry  Guido ;  perhaps,  if  he  could  have  analysed  his  feel- 
ings, as  Guido  could  have  done,  he  would  have  found 
that  he  really  meant  to  shock  her  a  little,  or  frighten 
her  by  the  point-blank  statement  that  he  loved  her,  in 
the  hope  of  widening  the  distance  which  he  supposed 
to  exist  between  them,  and  thereby  making  it  much 
more  improbable  that  she  should  ever  care  for  him. 

Even  now  he  did  not  see  how  he  could  ever  marry 
her  and  remain  Guido's  friend.  He  was  far  too  sensible 
to  tell  Guido  the  truth  and  appeal  to  his  generosity, 
for  the  best  man  living  is  not  inclined  to  be  generous 
when  he  has  just  been  jilted,  least  of  all  to  the  man 
to  whom  he  owes  his  discomfiture.  In  the  course  of 
time  Guido  might  grow  more  indifferent.  That  was 
the  most  that  could  be  hoped.  Nevertheless,  from  the 
instant  in  which  Lamberti  had  realised  the  truth,  com- 
ing back  to  his  senses  out  of  a  whirlwind  of  delight, 
he  had  known  that  he  meant  to  have  the  woman  he 
loved  for  himself,  since  she  loved  him  already,  and 
that  he  would  count  nothing  that  chanced  to  stand  in 


A   STOBY   OF   MODERN   ROME  371 

his  way,  neither  his  friend,  nor  his  career,  nor  his 
own  family,  nor  neck  nor  life,  either,  if  any  such 
improbable  risk  should  present  itself.  He  was  very 
glad  that  he  had  waited  till  he  was  quite  sure  that 
she  was  free,  for  he  knew  very  well  that  if  the  moment 
had  come  too  soon  he  should  have  felt  the  same  reck- 
less desire  to  win  her,  though  he  would  have  exiled 
himself  to  a  desert  island  in  the  Pacific  Ocean  rather 
than  yield  to  it. 

And  more  than  that.  He,  who  had  a  rough  and 
strong  belief  in  God,  in  an  ever  living  soul  within 
him,  and  in  everlasting  happiness  and  suffering  here- 
after, he,  who  called  suicide  the  most  dastardly  and 
execrable  crime  against  self  that  it  lies  in  the  power 
of  a  believing  man  to  commit,  would  have  shot  himself 
without  hesitation  rather  than  steal  the  love  of  his 
only  friend's  wedded  wife,  content  to  give  his  body  to 
instant  destruction,  and  his  soul  to  eternal  hell  —  if 
that  were  the  only  way  not  to  be  a  traitor.  God 
might  forgive  him  or  not;  salvation  or  damnation 
would  matter  little  compared  with  escaping  such  a 
monstrous  evil. 

He  did  not  think  these  things.  They  were  instinc- 
tive with  him  and  sure  as  fate,  like  all  the  impulses 
of  violent  temperaments;  just  as  certain  as  that  if  a 
man  should  give  him  the  lie  he  would  have  struck 
him  in  the  face  before  he  had  realised  that  he  had 
even  raised  his  hand.  Guido  d'Este,  as  brave  in  a 
different  way,  but  hating  any  violent  action,  would 
never  strike  a  man  at  all  if  he  could  possibly  help  it, 


872  CECILIA 

though  he  would  probably  not  miss  him  at  the  first  shot 
the  next  morning. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  had  not  elapsed  since  Lamberti 
had  left  the  Countess  and  Guido  together  when  he  let 
himself  in  again  with  his  latch-key.  He  went  at  once 
to  the  bedroom,  walking  slowly  and  scrutinising  the 
floor  as  he  went  along.  He  had  heard  of  tragedies 
brought  about  by  a  hairpin,  a  glove,  or  a  pocket  hand- 
kerchief, dropped  or  forgotten  in  places  where  they 
ought  not  to  be.  He  looked  everywhere  in  the  passage 
and  in  Guido's  room,  but  Cecilia  had  not  dropped  any- 
thing. Then  he  examined  his  beard  in  the  glass,  with 
an  absurd  exaggeration  of  caution.  Her  loose  brown 
veil  had  touched  his  cheek,  a  single  silk  thread  of  it 
clinging  to  his  beard  might  tell  a  tale.  He  was  a  man 
who  had  more  than  once  lived  among  savages  and 
knew  how  slight  a  trace  might  lead  to  a  broad  trail. 
Then  he  got  a  chair  and  set  it  against  the  side  of  the 
tall  wardrobe.  Standing  on  it  he  got  hold  of  the  cor- 
nice with  his  hands,  drew  himself  up  till  he  could  see 
over  it,  remained  suspended  by  one  hand  and,  with  the 
other,  laid  the  revolver  and  the  cartridges  on  the  top. 
Guido  would  never  find  them  there. 

The  Countess's  unnecessary  shyness  had  disappeared 
as  soon  as  she  saw  how  ill  Guido  looked.  His  head 
was  aching  terribly  now,  and  he  had  a  little  fever  again, 
but  he  raised  himself  as  well  as  he  could  to  greet  her, 
and  smiled  courteously  as  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"  This  is  very  kind  of  you,  my  dear  lady,"  he  man- 
aged to  say,  but  his  own  voice  sounded  far  off. 


A   STORY  OF  MODERN  ROME  373 

"  I  was  really  so  anxious  about  you ! "  the  Countess 
said,  with  a  little  laugh.  "And  —  and  about  it  all, 
you  know.     Now  tell  me  how  you  really  are ! " 

Guido  said  that  he  had  felt  better  in  the  morning, 
but  now  had  a  bad  headache.  She  sympathised  with 
him  and  suggested  bathing  his  temples  with  Eau  de 
Cologne,  which  seemed  simple.  She  always  did  it  her- 
self when  she  had  a  headache,  she  said.  The  best  was 
the  Forty- Seven  Eleven  kind.  But  of  course  he  knew 
that. 

He  felt  that  he  should  probably  go  mad  if  she  stayed 
five  minutes  longer,  but  his  courteous  manner  did  not 
change,  though  her  face  seemed  to  be  jumping  up  and 
down  at  every  throb  he  felt  in  his  head.  She  was  very 
kind,  he  repeated.  He  had  some  Eau  de  Cologne  of 
that  very  sort.  He  never  used  any  other.  This  sounded 
in  his  own  ears  so  absurdly  like  the  advertisements  of 
patent  soap  that  he  smiled  in  his  pain. 

Yes,  she  repeated,  it  was  quite  the  best;  and  she 
seemed  a  little  embarrassed,  as  if  she  wanted  to  say 
something  else  but  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to 
speak.  Could  she  do  anything  to  make  him  more 
comfortable  ?  She  could  go  away,  but  he  could  not  tell 
her  so.  He  thanked  her.  Lamberti  and  his  man  had 
taken  most  excellent  care  of  him.  Why  did  he  not 
have  a  nurse  ?  There  were  the  Sisters  of  Charity,  and 
the  French  sisters  who  wore  dark  blue  and  were  very 
good ;  she  could  not  remember  the  name  of  the  order, 
but  she  knew  where  they  lived.  Should  she  send  him 
one  ?     He  thanked  her  again,  and  the  room  turned  it- 


874  CECILIA 

self  upside  down  before  his  eyes  and  then  whirled  back 
again  at  the  next  throb.     Still  he  tried  to  smile. 

She  coughed  a  little  and  looked  at  her  perfectly 
fitting  gloves,  wishing  that  he  would  ask  after  Cecilia. 
If  he  had  been  suffering  less  he  would  have  known  that 
he  was  expected  to  do  so,  but  it  was  all  he  could  do  just 
then  to  keep  his  face  from  twitching. 

Then  she  suddenly  said  that  she  had  something  on 
her  mind  to  say  to  him,  but  that,  of  course,  as  he  was 
so  very  ill,  she  would  not  say  it  now,  but  as  soon  as  he 
was  quite  well  they  would  have  a  long  talk  together. 

Guido  was  a  man  more  nervous  than  sanguine,  and 
probably  more  phlegmatic  than  either,  and  his  nervous 
strength  asserted  itself  now,  just  when  he  began  to 
believe  that  he  was  on  the  verge  of  delirium.  He  felt 
suddenly  much  quieter  and  the  pain  in  his  head  dimin- 
ished, or  he  noticed  it  less.  He  said  that  he  was  quite 
able  to  talk  now,  and  wished  to  know  at  once  what  she 
had  to  say  to  him. 

She  needed  no  second  invitation  to  pour  out  her  heart 
about  Cecilia,  and  in  a  long  string  of  involved  and 
often  disjointed  sentences  she'  told  him  just  what  she 
felt.  Cecilia  had  done  her  best  to  love  him,  after  hav- 
ing really  believed  that  she  did  love  him,  but  it  was  of 
no  use,  and  it  was  much  better  that  Guido  should  know 
the  truth  now,  than  find  it  out  by  degrees.  Cecilia  was 
dreadfully  sorry  to  have  made  such  a  mistake,  and  both 
Cecilia  and  she  herself  would  always  be  the  best  friends 
he  had  in  the  world ;  but  the  engagement  had  better  be 
broken  off  at  once,  and  of  course,  as  it  would  injure 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  375 

Cecilia  if  everything  were  known,  it  would  be  very 
generous  of  him  to  let  it  be  thought  that  it  had  been 
broken  by  mutual  agreement,  and  without  any  quarrel. 
She  stopped  at  last,  rather  frightened  at  having  said  so 
much,  but  quite  sure  that  she  had  done  right,  and 
believing  that  she  knew  the  whole  truth  and  had  told  it 
all.     She  waited  for  his  answer  in  some  trepidation. 

"My  dear  lady,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  am  very  glad 
you  have  been  so  frank.  Ever  since  your  daughter 
wrote  me  that  letter  I  have  felt  that  it  must  end  in  this 
way.  As  she  does  not  wish  to  marry  me,  I  quite  agree 
that  our  engagement  should  end  at  once,  so  that  the 
agreement  is  really  mutual  and  friendly,  and  I  shall 
say  so." 

"  How  good  you  are ! "  cried  the  Countess,  delighted. 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  I  ask  of  you,"  Guido  said, 
after  pressing  his  right  hand  upon  his  forehead  in  an 
attempt  to  stop  the  throbbing  that  now  began  again. 
"I  do  not  think  I  am  asking  too  much,  considering 
what  has  happened,  and  I  promise  not  to  make  any  use 
of  what  you  tell  me." 

"  You  have  a  right  to  ask  us  anything,"  the  Countess 
answered,  contritely. 

"  Who  is  the  man  that  has  taken  my  place  ?  " 

The  Countess  stared  at  him  blankly  a  moment,  and 
her  mouth  opened  a  little. 

"  What  man  ?  "  she  asked,  evidently  not  understand- 
ing him. 

"I  naturally  supposed  that  your  daughter  felt  a 
strong  inclination  for  some  one  else,"  Guido  said. 


876  CECILIA 

"  Oh  dear,  no ! "  cried  the  Countess.  "  You  are  quite 
mistaken ! " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  then.     Pray  forget  what  I  said." 

He  saw  that  she  was  speaking  the  truth,  as  far  as  she 
knew  it,  and  he  had  long  ago  discovered  that  she  was 
quite  unable  to  conceal  anything  not  of  the  most  vital 
importance.  She  repeated  her  assurance  several  times, 
and  then  began  to  review  the  whole  situation,  till  Guido 
was  in  torment  again. 

At  last  the  door  opened  and  Lamberti  entered.  He 
saw  at  a  glance  how  Guido  was  suffering,  and  came  to 
his  side. 

"  I  am  afraid  he  is  not  so  well  to-day,"  he  said.  "  He 
looks  very  tired.  If  he  could  sleep  more,  he  would  get 
well  sooner." 

The  Countess  rose  at  once,  and  became  repentant  for 
having  stayed  too  long. 

"I  could  not  help  telling  him  everything,"  she 
explained,  looking  at  Lamberti.  "And  as  for  Cecilia 
being  in  love  with  some  one  else,"  she  added,  looking 
down  into  Guido's  face  and  taking  his  hand,  "you 
must  put  that  out  of  your  head  at  once !  As  if  I  should 
not  know  it !     It  is  perfectly  absurd !  " 

Lamberti  stared  fixedly  at  the  top  of  her  hat  while 
she  bent  down. 

"  Of  course,"  Guido  said,  summoning  his  strength  to 
bid  her  good-bye  courteously,  and  to  show  some  grati- 
tude for  her  visit.  "  I  am  sorry  I  spoke  of  it.  Thank 
you  very  much  for  coming  to  see  me,  and  for  being  so 
frank." 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  37T 

In  a  sense  he  was  glad  she  had  come,  for  her  coming 
had  solved  the  difficulty  in  which  he  had  been  placed. 
He  sank  back  exhausted  and  suffering  as  she  left  the 
room,  and  was  hardly  aware  that  Lamberti  came  back 
soon  afterwards  and  sat  down  beside  him.  Before 
long  his  friend  carried  him  back  to  his  bed,  for  he 
seemed  unable  to  walk. 

Lamberti  stayed  with  him  till  he  fell  asleep  under 
the  influence  of  a  soporific  medicine,  and  then  called 
the  man-servant.  He  told  him  he  had  taken  the  revol- 
ver from  the  drawer,  because  his  master  was  not  to  be 
married  after  all,  and  might  do  something  foolish,  and 
ought  to  be  watched  continually,  and  he  said  that  he 
would  come  back  and  stay  through  the  night.  The 
man  had  been  in  his  own  service  and  could  be  trusted 
now  that  he  had  slept. 

Lamberti  left  the  Palazzo  Farnese  and  walked  slowly 
homeward  in  the  white  glare,  smoking  steadily  all  the 
way,  and  looking  straight  before  him. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

The  Countess  wrote  that  afternoon  to  Baron  Gold- 
birn,  of  Vienna,  and  to  the  Princess  Anatolie,  now  in 
Styria,  that  the  engagement  between  her  daughter  and 
Signor  Guido  d'Este  was  broken  off  by  mutual  agree- 
ment. She  had  told  Cecilia  that  she  had  been  to  see 
Guido  and  had  confessed  the  plain  truth,  and  that  there 
need  be  no  more  comedies,  because  men  never  died  of 
that  sort  of  thing  after  all,  and  it  was  much  better  for 
them  to  be  told  everything  outright.  Cecilia  seemed 
perfectly  satisfied  and  thanked  her.  Then  the  Countess 
said  she  would  like  to  go  to  Brittany,  or  perhaps  to 
Norway,  where  she  had  never  been,  but  that  if  Cecilia 
preferred  Scotland,  she  would  make  no  objection.  She 
would  go  anywhere,  provided  the  place  were  cool,  and 
on  the  top  of  a  mountain,  or  by  the  sea,  but  she  wished 
to  leave  at  once.  Everything  had  been  ready  for  their 
departure  several  days  ago. 

"  You  do  not  really  mean  to  leave  Rome  till  Guido 
—  I  mean,  till  Signor  d'Este  is  out  of  all  danger,  do 
you  ?  "  asked  the  young  girl. 

"My  dear,  since  you  are  not  going  to  marry  him, 
what  difference  can  it  make?"  asked  the  Countess, 
unconsciously  heartless.  "  The  sooner  we  go,  the 
better.     You  are  as  pale  as  a  sheet  and  as  thin  as  a 

378 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  379 

skeleton.  You  will  lose  all  your  looks  if  you  stay 
here  ! " 

Cecilia  was  in  a  loose  white  silk  garment  with  open 
sleeves.  She  looked  at  the  perfect  curve  of  her  arm, 
from  the  slender  wrist  to  the  delicately  rounded  elbow, 
and  smiled. 

"  I  am  not  a  skeleton  yet,"  she  said. 

"  You  will  be  in  a  few  days,"  her  mother  answered 
cheerfully.  "  There  is  a  telegraph  to  everywhere  nowa- 
days, and  Signor  Lamberti  will  be  here  and  can  send 
us  news  all  the  time.  You  cannot  possibly  go  and  see 
the  poor  man,  you  know.  If  you  could  only  guess  how 
I  felt,  my  dear,  when  I  found  myself  there  this  morn- 
ing alone  with  him!  I  confess,  I  half  expected  that 
the  walls  would  be  covered  with  the  most  dreadful 
pictures,  those  things  I  do  not  like  you  to  look  at  in 
the  Paris  Salon,  you  know.  Women  apparently  wait- 
ing for  tea  on  the  lawn  —  before  dressing  —  that  sort  of 
thing."     The  good  Countess  blushed  at  the  thought. 

"  They  are  only  women !  "  said  Cecilia.  "  Why 
should  I  not  look  at  them?" 

"Because  they  are  horrid,"  answered  the  Countess. 
"  But  I  must  say  I  saw  nothing  of  the  sort  in  Guido's 
rooms.  Nevertheless,  I  felt  like  the  wicked  ladies  in 
the  French  novels,  who  always  go  out  in  thick  veils 
and  have  little  gold  keys  hidden  somewhere  inside  their 
clothes.     It  must  be  very  uncomfortable." 

She  prattled  on  and  her  daughter  scarcely  heard  her. 
All  sorts  of  hard  questions  were  presenting  themselves 
to  Cecilia's  mind  together.     Had  she  done  wrong,  or 


380  CECILIA 

right?  And  then,  though  it  might  have  been  quite 
right  to  let  Lamberti  know  that  she  loved  him,  had  her 
behaviour  been  modest  and  maidenly,  or  over  bold? 
After  all,  could  she  have  helped  putting  out  her  hand 
to  find  his  just  then?  And  when  she  had  found  it, 
could  she  possibly  have  checked  herself  from  drawing 
him  nearer  to  her  ?  Had  she  any  will  of  her  own  left 
at  that  moment,  or  had  she  been  taken  unawares  and 
made  to  do  something  which  she  would  never  have 
done,  if  she  had  been  quite  calm  ?  Calm  !  She  almost 
laughed  at  the  word  as  it  came  into  her  thought. 

Her  mother  was  reading  the  Figaro  now,  having 
given  up  talking  when  she  saw  that  Cecilia  did 
not  listen.  Ever  since  Cecilia  could  remember  her 
mother  had  read  the  Figaro.  When  it  did  not  come  by 
the  usual  post  she  read  the  number  of  the  preceding 
day  over  again. 

Cecilia  was  trying  to  decide  where  to  spend  the  rest 
of  the  summer,  tolerably  sure  that  she  could  make  her 
mother  accept  any  reasonable  plan  she  offered.  By  a 
reasonable  plan  she  meant  one  that  should  not  take  her 
too  far  from  Rome.  For  her  own  part  she  would 
have  been  glad  not  to  go  away  at  all.  There  was 
Vallombrosa,  which  was  high  up  and  very  cool,  and 
there  was  Viareggio,  which  was  by  the  sea,  but  much 
warmer,  and  there  was  Sorrento,  which  had  become 
fashionable  in  the  summer,  and  was  never  very  hot 
and  was  the  prettiest  place  of  all.  Something  must  be 
decided  at  once,  for  she  knew  her  mother  well.  When 
the  Countess  grew  restless  to  leave  town,  it  was  im- 


A  STORY   OF   MODERN  ROME  381 

possible  to  live  with  her.  A  startled  exclamation 
interrupted  Cecilia's  reflections. 

"  My  dear !     How  awful !  " 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Cecilia,  placidly,  expecting  her 
mother  to  read  out  some  blood-curdling  tale  of  runaway 
motor  cars  and  mangled  nursery  maids. 

"  This  is  too  dreadful ! "  cried  the  Countess,  still 
buried  in  the  article  she  had  found,  and  reading  on  to 
herself,  too  much  interested  to  stop  a  moment. 

"Is  anybody  amusing  dead?"  enquired  Cecilia,  with 
calm. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  "  asked  the  Countess,  reaching 
the  end.  "This  is  the  most  frightful  thing  I  ever 
heard  of !  A  million  of  francs  —  in  small  sums  — 
extracted  on  all  sorts  of  pretexts  —  probably  as  black- 
mail—  it  is  perfectly  horrible." 

"Who  has  extracted  a  million  of  francs  from 
whom  ?  "  asked  Cecilia,  quite  indifferent. 

"  Guido  d'Este,  of  course  !  I  told  you  —  from  the 
Princess  Anatolie  —  " 

"Guido?"  Cecilia  started  from  her  seat.  "It  is  a 
lie ! "  she  cried,  leaning  over  her  mother's  shoulder  and 
reading  quickly.     "  It  is  an  infamous  lie  !  " 

"  My  dear  ?  "  protested  the  Countess.  "  They  would 
not  dare  to  print  such  a  thing  if  it  were  not  true! 
Poor  Guido !  Of  course,  I  suppose  they  take  an  exag- 
gerated view,  but  the  Princess  always  gave  me  to 
understand  that  he  had  large  debts.  It  was  a  million, 
you  see,  just  that  million  they  wished  us  to  give  for 
your  dowry!     Yes,  that  would  have  set  him  straight. 


382  CECILIA 

But  they  did  not  get  it !  My  child,  what  an  escape 
you  have  made !  Just  fancy  if  you  had  been  already 
married !  " 

"  I  do  not  believe  a  word  of  it,"  said  Cecilia,  indig- 
nantly throwing  down  the  paper  she  had  taken  from 
her  mother's  hand.  "  Besides,  there  is  only  an  initial. 
It  only  speaks  of  a  certain  Monsieur  d'E." 

"  Oh,  there  is  no  doubt  about  it,  I  am  afraid.  His 
aunt,  '  a  certain  Princess,'  his  father  '  one  of  the  great 
of  the  earth.'     It  could  not  be  any  one  else." 

"I  should  like  to  kill  the  people  who  write  such 
things ! "     Cecilia  was  righteously  angry. 

The  seed  sown  by  Monsieur  Leroy  was  bearing  fruit 
already,  and  in  a  much  more  public  place  than  he  had 
expected,  or  even  wished.  The  young  lawyer  cared 
much  less  for  the  money  he  might  make  out  of  the 
affair  than  for  the  advantage  of  having  his  name  con- 
nected with  a  famous  scandal,  and  he  had  not  found  it 
hard  to  make  the  story  public.  The  article  appeared 
in  the  shape  of  a  letter  from  an  occasional  correspond- 
ent, and  said  it  was  rumoured  that  since  her  nephew 
was  to  make  a  rich  marriage  the  Princess  would  bring 
suit  to  recover  the  sums  she  had  been  induced  to  lend 
him  on  divers  pretences.  Her  legal  representative  in 
Rome,  it  was  stated,  had  been  interviewed,  but  had 
positively  refused  to  give  any  information,  and  his 
name  was  given  in  full,  whereas  all  the  others  were 
indicated  by  initials  followed  by  dots.  The  lawyer 
flattered  himself  that  this  was  a  remarkably  neat  way 
of  letting  the  world  know  who  he  was  and  with  what 
great  discretion  he  was  endowed. 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  383 

As  Cecilia  thought  of  Guido's  face  as  she  had  seen 
it  that  morning,  her  heart  beat  with  anger  and  she 
clenched  her  hand  and  turned  away.  Her  mother  be- 
lieved the  story,  or  a  part  of  it,  and  others  would 
believe  as  much.  The  Figaro  had  come  in  the  morning, 
and  the  article  would  certainly  appear  in  the  Roman 
papers  that  very  evening.  Guido  would  not  hear  of  it 
at  present,  because  Lamberti  would  keep  it  from  him, 
but  he  must  know  it  in  the  end. 

The  girl  was  powerless,  and  realised  it.  If  she  had 
been  mistress  of  her  own  fortune  she  would  readily 
have  satisfied  the  Princess's  demands  on  Guido,  for  she 
suspected  that  in  some  way  the  abominable  article  had 
been  authorised  by  his  aunt.  But  she  was  still  Baron 
Goldbirn's  ward,  and  the  sensible  financier  would  have 
laughed  to  scorn  the  idea  of  ransoming  Guido  d'Este's 
reputation.  So  would  her  mother,  though  she  was  gen- 
erous; and  besides,  the  Countess  could  not  touch  her 
capital,  which  was  held  in  trust  for  Cecilia. 

"  What  a  mercy  that  you  are  not  married  to  him ! " 
she  said,  reading  the  article  again,  while  her  daughter 
walked  up  and  down  the  small  boudoir. 

"  You  should  not  say  such  things !  "  Cecilia  answered 
hotly.  "Why  do  you  read  that  disgusting  paper? 
You  know  the  story  is  a  vile  falsehood,  from  beginning 
to  end.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do  !  Signer  Lam- 
berti will  go  to  Paris  to-night  and  kill  the  man  who 
wrote  it." 

Her  eyes  flashed,  and  she  had  visions  of  the  man  she 
loved  shaking  a  miserable  creature  to  death,  as  a  terrier 


384  CECILIA 

kills  a  rat.  Oddly  enough  the  miserable  creature  took 
the  shape  of  Monsieur  Leroy  in  her  vivid  imagination. 

"  Monsieur  Leroy  is  at  the  bottom  of  this,"  she  said 
with  instant  conviction.     "  He  hates  Guido." 

"  I  daresay,"  answered  the  Countess.  "  I  never  liked 
Monsieur  Leroy.  Do  you  remember,  when  I  asked 
about  him  at  the  Princess's  dinner,  what  an  awful 
silence  there  was  ?  That  was  one  of  the  most  dreadful 
moments  of  my  life!  I  am  sure  her  relations  never 
mention  him." 

"  He  does  what  he  likes  with  her.    He  is  a  spiritualist. " 

"  Who  told  you  that,  child  ?  " 

"  That  dear  old  Don  Nicola  Francesetti,  the  archaeol- 
ogist who  showed  us  the  discoveries  in  Saint  Cecilia's 
church." 

"  I  remember.     I  had  quite  forgotten  him." 

"Yes.  He  told  me  that  Monsieur  Leroy  makes 
tables  turn  and  rap,  and  all  that,  and  persuades  the 
Princess  that  he  is  in  communication  with  spirits.  Don 
Nicola  said  quite  gravely  that  the  devil  was  in  all 
spiritualism." 

"Of  course  he  is,"  assented  the  Countess.  "I  have 
heard  of  dreadful  things  happening  to  people  who 
made  tables  turn.  They  go  mad,  and  all  sorts  of 
things." 

"  All  sorts  of  things,"  in  the  Countess's  mind  repre- 
sented everything  she  could  not  remember  or  would 
not  take  the  trouble  to  say.  The  expression  did  not 
always  stand  grammatically  in  the  sentence,  but  that 
was  of  no  importance  whatever  compared  with  the  con- 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  385 

venience  of  using  it  in  any  language  she  chanced  to  be 
speaking.  She  belonged  to  a  generation  in  which  a 
woman  was  considered  to  have  finished  her  education 
when  she  had  learned  to  play  the  piano  and  had  for- 
gotten arithmetic,  and  she  had  now  forgotten  both, 
which  did  not  prevent  her  from  being  generally  liked, 
while  some  people  thought  her  amusing. 

Just  at  that  moment  she  seemed  hopelessly  frivolous 
to  Cecilia,  who  was  in  the  greatest  distress  for  Guido, 
and  left  her  to  take  refuge  in  solitude.  She  could 
remember  no  day  in  her  life  on  which  so  much  had 
happened  to  change  it,  and  she  felt  that  she  must  be 
alone  at  last. 

In  her  old  way  she  sat  down  to  let  herself  dream 
with  open  eyes  in  the  darkened  room.  There  could  be 
no  harm  in  it  now,  and  the  old  longing  came  upon  her 
as  if  she  had  never  tried  to  resist  it.  She  sat  facing  the 
shadows  and  concentrated  all  her  thoughts  on  one  point 
with  a  steady  effort,  sure  that  presently  she  should  be 
thinking  of  nothing  and  waiting  for  the  vision  to 
appear,  and  for  the  dream-man  she  had  loved  so  long. 
He  might  take  her  into  his  arms  now,  and  she  would 
not  resist  him ;  she  would  let  his  lips  meet  hers,  and  for 
one  endless  instant  she  would  be  lifted  up  in  strong  and 
strange  delight,  as  when  to-day  her  veiled  cheek  had 
pressed  against  his  for  a  second  —  or  an  hour  —  she  did 
not  know.  He  might  kiss  her  in  dreams  now,  for  in 
real  life  he  loved  her  as  she  loved  him,  and  some  day, 
far  off  no  doubt,  when  poor  Guido  was  well  and  strong 
again,  and  Lamberti  had  silenced  all   the   calumnies 

2c 


CECILIA 

invented  against  him,  then  it  would  all  surely  come 
true  indeed. 

But  now  she  waited  long,  patiently,  in  the  certainty  that 
she  could  go  back  to  the  marble  court  and  stand  by  the 
pillar  in  the  morning  light  till  she  felt  him  coming  up 
behind  her.  Yet  she  saw  nothing,  and  her  eyes  grew 
weary  of  watching  the  shadows,  and  closed  themselves, 
for  it  was  afternoon,  and  very  hot,  and  she  was  tired.  She 
fell  into  a  sweet  sleep  in  her  chair,  and  presently  the 
refreshing  breeze  that  springs  up  in  Rome  towards  five 
o'clock  in  summer  blew  through  the  drawn  blinds  to  fan 
her  delicate  cheek,  and  stir  the  little  golden  ringlets 
at  her  temples.  While  she  slept  her  face  grew  sad  by 
slow  degrees,  and  on  her  lap  her  hands  moved  and  lay 
with  their  palms  turned  upwards  as  if  she  were  appeal- 
ing piteously  to  some  higher  power  for  mercy  and  help. 

Shadows  darkened  softly  under  her  eyes,  as  she  lay 
thus,  and  the  young  lids  swelled  and  trembled ;  and  she, 
who  never  shed  tears  waking,  wept  silently  in  her  sleep. 
The  bright  drops  hung  by  the  lashes  and  broke,  tric- 
kling down  her  cheeks,  one  by  one,  till  they  fell  sideways 
upon  her  bare  white  neck.  Many  they  were  and  long 
they  fell,  and  when  they  ceased  at  last,  her  face  was 
very  white  and  still,  as  if  she  were  quite  dead,  and  dead 
of  a  sorrow  that  could  be  consoled  only  in  heaven. 

She  had  dreamed  that  the  Vestal's  vow  was  broken  at 
last,  and  that  she  was  sitting  alone  at  night  on  the  steps 
of  the  closed  Temple,  leaning  back  against  the  base  of  a 
pillar,  watching  the  stars  that  slowly  ascended  out  of 
the  east ;  and  she  was  thinking  of  what  she  had  been, 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN  ROME  387 

and  that  she  should  never  again  stand  within  the  holy 
place  to  feed  the  sacred  fire  with  the  consecrated  wood, 
and  sweep  the  precious  ashes  into  the  mysterious  pit  be- 
neath the  altar.  Never  again  was  she  to  write  down  the 
records  of  the  lordly  Roman  unions  that  had  kept  the 
stock  great  and  pure  and  the  free  blood  clean  from  that 
of  slaves  for  a  thousand  years.  Never  might  she  sit  at 
the  feet  of  the  Chief  Virgin  in  the  moonlit  court,  listen- 
ing to  tales  of  holy  Vestals  in  old  time,  while  the  slow 
water  murmured  in  the  channels  between  one  fountain 
and  another. 

It  was  all  over,  all  ended,  all  behind  her  in  the  past 
for  ever.  Her  vow  was  broken,  because  her  veiled 
cheek  had  touched  the  cheek  of  a  living,  breathing 
man  who  had  laid  a  strong  hand  upon  her  neck  and 
had  pressed  her  close  to  him,  she  consenting,  and  always 
to  consent.  She  was  not  to  die  for  it,  since  it  was  no 
mortal  sin,  but  she  was  no  longer  a  Vestal  now,  and  the 
Temple  and  the  house  of  the  pure  in  heart  were  shut 
against  her  henceforth  and  would  not  be  opened  again. 
She  knew  that  she  had  passed  the  threshold  for  the  last 
time,  and  that  the  man  she  loved  would  soon  come  and 
take  her  away  to  another  life.  After  that  there  would 
be  no  fear  in  the  world,  since  she  would  always  be  with 
him,  and  he  would  make  her  forget  all.  But  he  had  not 
come  yet,  and  while  she  waited  her  tears  flowed  quietly 
and  sadly  for  all  that  was  no  more  to  be  hers,  but  most 
of  all  because  she  had  broken  a  high  and  solemn  prom- 
ise which  had  been  the  foundation  of  her  life.  In  the 
old  dream,  when  the  Vestals  were  dismissed  from  their 


388  .     CECILIA 

oflBce  each  to  her  own  home,  she  was  the  most  faithful  of 
them  all,  to  the  very  end.  But  now  she  had  been  the 
very  first  to  yield,  and  they  had  put  her  out  of  their 
midst,  sadly  and  silently,  to  wait  alone  in  the  night  for 
him  she  loved.  So  she  waited  and  wept,  and  the  night 
wind  seemed  to  freeze  the  salt  tears  on  her  face  and  neck ; 
yet  he  did  not  come. 

Then  she  heard  his  step;  but  she  was  wakened  by 
the  soft  sound  of  the  latch  bolt  of  her  door  in  its  socket, 
and  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  straight  and  white,  with  a 
little  sharp  cry,  for  the  fancied  sound  had  always 
frightened  her  as  nothing  else  could.  This  time  she 
had  not  turned  the  key,  and  the  door  opened. 

"  Did  I  startle  you,  child  ?  "  asked  her  mother's  voice, 
kindly.  "I  am  sorry.  Signor  Lamberti  is  in  the 
drawing-room.  I  think  you  had  better  come.  He  has 
heard  of  the  article  in  the  Figaro^  and  is  reading  it 
now." 

"  I  will  come  in  a  minute,  mother,"  Cecilia  answered, 
turning  her  face  away.     "  Let  me  slip  on  my  frock." 

"  It  is  only  Signor  Lamberti,"  the  Countess  observed, 
rather  thoughtlessly.     "  But  I  will  send  you  Petersen." 

The  door  was  shut  again,  and  Cecilia  heard  her 
mother's  tripping  footsteps  on  the  glazed  tiles  in  the 
corridor.  She  knew  that  she  had  blushed  quickly,  for 
she  had  been  taken  unawares,  but  the  room  was  dark- 
ened and  her  mother  had  noticed  nothing.  She  was 
suddenly  aware  that  her  cheeks  and  her  neck  were  wet, 
and  she  remembered  what  she  had  dreamt  and  wondered 
that  her  tears  should  have  been  real.     She  had  let  in 


A   STORY   OF  MODERN   ROME  389 

more  light  now  and  she  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass 
with  curiosity,  for  she  did  not  remember  to  have  cried 
since  she  had  been  a  little  girl.  The  dried  tears  gave 
her  face  a  stained  and  spotted  look  she  did  not  like, 
and  she  made  haste  to  bathe  it  in  cold  water.  Even 
the  near-sighted  Petersen  might  see  something  unusual, 
and  she  would  not  let  Lamberti  guess  that  she  had  been 
crying  on  that  day  of  all  days. 

It  was  all  very  strange,  and  while  she  dressed  she 
wondered  still  why  the  real  tears  had  come,  and  why  she 
had  dreamt  she  had  broken  her  vow.  She  had  never 
dreamt  that  before,  not  even  when  she  used  to  meet 
Lamberti  in  her  dreams  by  the  fountain  in  the  Villa 
Madama.  It  was  stranger  still  that  she  should  not 
have  been  able  to  call  up  the  waking  vision  in  the  old 
way.  It  was  as  if  some  power  she  had  once  possessed 
had  left  her  very  suddenly,  a  power,  or  a  laculty,  or 
a  gift ;  she  could  not  tell  what  it  was,  but  it  was  gone 
and  something  told  her  that  it  would  not  return.  She 
made  haste,  and  almost  ran  along  the  broad  passage. 

When  she  went  into  the  drawing-room  Lamberti  was 
standing  with  the  Figaro  in  his  hand,  before  her  mother 
who  was  sitting  down.  He  bowed  rather  stiffly,  though 
he  smiled  a  little,  and  she  saw  that  his  blue  eyes  glit- 
tered and  his  face  had  the  ruthless  look  she  used  to 
dread.  She  knew  what  it  meant  now,  and  was  pleased. 
She  wished  she  could  see  him  shake  the  wretch  who 
had  written  the  article ;  she  was  glad  that  he  was  just 
what  he  was,  not  too  tall,  strong,  active,  red-haired  and 
angry,  a  fighting  man  from  head  to  foot,  roused  and 


890  CECILIA 

ready  for  a  violent  deed.  She  had  waited  for  him  so 
long,  outside  the  closed  Temple  of  Vesta  in  the  cold 
night  wind ! 

"  It  is  not  the  article  that  matters,"  he  said,  taking  it 
for  granted  that  she  knew  the  contents.  "  It  is  what 
Guido  would  feel  if  he  read  it." 

"  Especially  just  now,"  observed  the  Countess,  look- 
ing at  Cecilia. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  Cecilia  asked  as  quietly 
as  she  could.     "  Shall  you  go  to  Paris  ?  " 

"  No !  this  was  written  in  Rome.  I  will  wager  my  life 
that  the  lawyer  who  is  mentioned  here  wrote  it  all  and 
got  some  clever  Frenchman  to  translate  it  for  him.  I 
know  the  fellow  by  name." 

"  I  thought  Monsieur  Leroy  was  at  the  bottom  of  it," 
said  Cecilia. 

Lamberti  looked  at  her  a  moment. 

"  I  daresay,"  he  said.  "  I  am  sure  that  the  Princess 
never  meant  that  anything  of  this  sort  should  be  printed. 
Did  Guido  ever  tell  you  about  her  money  dealings  with 
him  ?  " 

Guido  had  never  mentioned  them,  of  course,  and 
Lamberti  explained  in  a  few  words  exactly  what  had 
happened,  and  the  nature  of  the  receipts  Guido  had 
given  to  his  aunt. 

"  I  daresay  you  are  right  about  Monsieur  Leroy,"  he 
concluded,  "  for  the  old  lady  is  far  too  clever  to  have 
done  such  an  absurd  thing  as  this,  and  it  is  just  like  his 
blundering  hatred  of  Guido." 

"  I  wish   he   were   here,"   said    Cecilia,   looking    at 


A   STOEY   OF   MODERN  ROME  391 

Lamberti's  hands.  "  I  wonder  what  you  would  do  to 
him." 

"  The  lawyer  is  here,  which  is  more  to  the  purpose," 
Lamberti  answered. 

"  You  cannot  fight  a  lawyer,  can  you  ?  "  asked  the 
young  girl.     "  You  cannot  shoot  him." 

"  One  can  without  doubt,"  returned  Lamberti,  smiling. 
"  But  it  will  not  be  necessary." 

"  My  dear  child,"  cried  the  Countess  in  a  reproachful 
tone,  "  I  had  no  idea  you  could  be  so  bloodthirsty !  Your 
father  fought  with  Garibaldi,  but  I  am  sure  he  never 
talked  like  that." 

"  Men  have  no  need  of  talking,  mother.  They  can 
fight  themselves." 

"  May  I  take  the  Figaro  with  me  ?  "  asked  Lamberti. 
"  I  may  not  be  able  to  buy  a  copy.  By  the  bye.  Baron 
Goldbirn  is  your  guardian,  is  he  not  ?  He  must  have 
important  relations  with  the  financiers  in  Paris." 

Cecilia  looked  at  her  mother,  meaning  her  to  answer 
the  question. 

"  He  is  always  in  Paris  himself,"  said  the  Countess. 
"  I  mean  when  he  is  not  in  Vienna." 

"Can  you  telegraph  to  him  to  use  his  influence  in 
Paris,  so  that  the  Figaro  shall  correct  the  article? 
Newspapers  never  take  back  what  they  say,  but  it  will 
be  enough  if  a  paragraph  appears  in  a  prominent  part  of 
the  paper  stating  that  some  ill-disposed  people  having 
supposed  that  the  person  referred  to  in  a  recent  letter 
from  a  Roman  correspondent  was  Guido  d'Este,  the 
editors  take  the  opportunity  of  stating  positively  that 


392  CECILIA 

no  reference  to  him  was  intended.  Will  you  telegraph 
that?" 

"But  will  it  be  of  any  use?"  asked  the  Countess, 
who  was  slightly  in  awe  of  Baron  Goldbirn. 

"Please  write  the  telegram  yourself,"  Cecilia  said. 
"Then  there  cannot  be  any  mistake.  The  address  is 
Karnthner  Ring,  Vienna." 

"You  will  find  writing  paper  in  my  boudoir,"  said 
the  Countess.     "Cecilia  will  show  you." 

The  young  girl  led  the  way  to  her  mother's  table  in 
the  next  room,  and  Lamberti  sat  down  before  it,  while 
she  pulled  out  a  sheet  of  paper  and  gave  him  a  pen. 
Neither  looked  at  the  other,  and  Lamberti  wrote  slowly 
in  a  laboured  round  hand  unlike  his  own,  intended  for 
the  telegraph  clerk  to  read  easily. 

"How  shall  I  sign  it?"  he  asked  when  he  had 
finished. 

" '  Countess  Fortiguerra.'  " 

He  wrote,  blotted  the  page,  and  rose.  For  one 
moment  he  stood  close  beside  her. 

"  Shall  I  tell  your  mother?  "  he  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Not  yet." 

He  bent  his  head  and  looked  at  her,  and  his  face 
softened  wonderfully  in  that  instant.  But  there  was 
not  a  touch  of  their  hands,  though  they  were  alone 
in  the  room,  nor  a  tender  word  spoken  in  a  whisper 
to  have  told  any  one  that  they  loved  each  other  so 
well.  They  were  alike,  and  they  understood  without 
speech  or  touch. 

Lamberti  read  the  telegram  to  the   Countess,  who 


A   STORY   OF  MODERN   ROME  393 

seemed  satisfied,  but  not  very  hopeful  about  the  re- 
sult. 

"I  never  could  understand  what  financiers  and 
newspapers  have  to  do  with  each  other,"  she  observed. 
"They  seem  to  me  so  different." 

"  There  is  not  often  any  resemblance  between  a  horse 
and  his  rider,"  said  Lamberti,  enigmatically. 

"  Will  you  come  this  evening  and  tell  us  what  the 
lawyer  says  ?  "  Cecilia  asked. 

"  Yes,  if  I  may." 

"  Pray  do,"  said  the  Countess.  "  We  should  so  much 
like  to  know.  Poor  Guido  I  Good-bye  I "  Lamberti  left 
the  room. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

When  Lamberti  reached  the  Palazzo  Farnese  at  eight 
o'clock  he  had  all  Guido's  receipts  for  the  Princess's 
money  in  his  pocket.  He  had  difficulty  in  getting  the 
lawyer  to  see  him  on  business  so  late  in  the  afternoon, 
and  when  he  succeeded  at  last  he  did  not  find  it  easy  to 
carry  matters  with  a  high  hand ;  but  he  had  come  pre- 
pared to  go  to  any  length,  for  he  was  in  no  gentle 
humour,  and  if  he  could  not  get  the  papers  by  persua- 
sion, he  fully  intended  to  take  them  by  force,  though 
that  might  be  the  end  of  his  career  as  an  officer,  and 
might  even  bring  him  into  court  for  something  very 
like  robbery. 

The  lawyer  was  obdurate  at  first.  He  of  course 
denied  all  knowledge  of  the  article  in  the  Figaro^  but 
he  said  that  he  was  the  Princess's  legal  representative, 
that  the  case  had  been  formally  placed  in  his  hands,  and 
that  he  should  use  all  his  professional  energy  in  her 
interests. 

"  After  all,"  said  Lamberti  at  last,  "  you  have  nothing 
but  a  few  informal  bits  of  writing  to  base  your  case 
upon.     They  have  no  legal  value." 

"  They  are  stamped  receipts,"  answered  the  lawyer. 

"  They  are  not  stamped,"  Lamberti  replied. 

"  They  are !  " 

394 


A  STORY   OF   MODEEN   KOME  396 

"They  are  not!" 

"You  are  giving  me  the  lie,  sir,"  said  the  lawyer, 
angrily. 

"  I  say  that  they  are  not  stamped,"  retorted  Lamberti. 
"  You  dare  not  show  them  to  me." 

The  lawyer  was  human,  after  all.  He  opened  his 
safe,  in  a  rage,  found  the  receipts,  and  showed  one  of 
them  to  Lamberti  triumphantly. 

"  There  !  "  he  cried.  "  Are  they  stamped  or  not  ? 
Is  the  signature  written  across  the  stamp  or  not?  " 

Lamberti  had  the  advantage  of  knowing  positively 
that  when  Guido  had  given  the  acknowledgments  to  his 
aunt,  there  had  been  no  stamps  on  them.  He  did  not 
know  how  they  had  got  them  now,  but  he  was  sure  that 
some  fraud  had  been  committed.  It  was  broad  daylight 
still,  and  he  examined  the  signature  carefully  while  the 
lawyer  held  the  half  sheet  of  note  paper  before  his  eyes. 
The  paper  was  certainly  the  Princess's,  and  the  writing 
was  Guido's  beyond  doubt.  The  Princess  always  used 
violet  ink,  and  Guido  had  written  with  it.  It  struck 
Lamberti  suddenly  that  it  had  turned  black  where  the 
signature  crossed  the  stamp,  but  had  remained  violet 
everywhere  else.  Now  violet  ink  sometimes  turns 
black  altogether,  but  it  does  not  change  colour  in  parts. 
As  he  looked  nearer,  he  saw  that  the  letters  formed 
on  the  stamp  were  a  little  tremulous.  Though  he  had 
never  heard  of  such  a  thing,  it  now  occurred  to  him  that 
the  stamp  had  been  simply  stuck  upon  the  middle  of 
the  signature,  and  that  the  part  of  the  latter  that  had 
been  covered  by  it  had  been  cleverly  forged  over  ito 


896  CECILIA 

"  The  stamp  makes  very  much  less  difference  in 
law  than  you  seem  to  suppose,"  said  the  lawyer,  en- 
joying his  triumph. 

"It  will  make  a  considerable  difference  in  law," 
answered  Lamberti, "  if  I  prove  to  you  that  the  stamp 
was  put  on  over  the  first  writing,  and  part  of  the 
signature  forged  upon  it.  It  has  not  even  been  done 
with  the  same  ink!  The  one  is  black  and  the  other 
is  violet.  Do  you  know  that  this  is  forgery,  and 
that  you  may  lose  your  reputation  if  you  try  to 
found  an  action  at  law  upon  a  forged  document?" 

The  lawyer  was  now  scrutinising  the  signatures  of 
the  notes  one  by  one  in  the  strong  evening  light. 
His  anger  had  disappeared  and  there  were  drops  of 
perspiration  on  his  forehead. 

"There  is  only  one  way  of  proving  it  to  you," 
Lamberti  said  quietly.  "Moisten  one  of  the  stamps 
and  raise  it.  If  the  signature  runs  underneath  it  in 
violet  ink,  I  am  right,  and  the  wisest  thing  you  can 
do  is  to  hand  me  those  pieces  of  paper  and  say  noth- 
ing more  about  them.  You  can  write  to  Monsieur 
Leroy  that  you  have  done  so.  I  even  believe  that 
he  would  pay  a  considerable  sum  for  them." 

It  was  as  he  said,  and  the  lawyer  was  soon  con- 
vinced that  he  had  been  imposed  upon,  and  had 
narrowly  escaped  being  laughed  at  as  a  dupe,  or  pros- 
ecuted as  a  party  accessory  to  a  fraud.  He  was 
glad  to  be  out  of  the  whole  affair  so  easily.  There- 
fore, when  Lamberti  reached  his  friend's  door,  he  had 
the  receipts  in  his  pocket  and  he  now  meant  to   tell 


A  STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  397 

Guido  what  had  happened,  after  first  giving  them 
back  to  him.  Guido  would  laugh  at  Monsieur  Leroy's 
stupid  attempt  to  hurt  him.  But  some  one  had  been 
before  Lamberti. 

"  He  is  very  ill," 'said  the  servant,  gravely,  as  he 
admitted  him.  "  The  doctor  is  there  and  has  sent 
for  a  nurse.      I  telephoned  for  him." 

Lamberti  asked  him  what  had  happened,  fearing 
the  truth.  Guido  had  felt  a  little  better  in  the  after- 
noon and  had  asked  for  his  letters  and  papers.  Half 
an  hour  later  his  servant  had  gone  in  with  his  tea 
and  had  found  him  raving  in  delirium.  That  was 
all,  but  Lamberti  knew  what  it  meant.  Guido  did 
not  take  the  Figaro^  but  some  one  had  sent  the 
article  to  him  and  he  had  read  it.  He  had  brain 
fever,  and  Lamberti  was  not  surprised,  for  he  had 
suffered  as  much  on  that  day  as  would  have  killed 
some  men,  and  might  have  driven  some  men  mad. 

Lamberti  did  not  wish  to  frighten  Cecilia  or  her 
mother,  but  he  sent  them  word  that  he  would  not 
leave  Guido  that  night,  nor  till  he  was  better,  and 
that  he  had  seen  the  lawyer  and  had  recovered  a 
number  of  forged  papers. 

After  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to 
watch  and  wait,  and  hear  the  broken  phrases  that  fell 
from  the  sick  man's  lips,  now  high,  now  low,  now 
laughing,  now  despairing,  as  if  a  host  of  mad  spirits 
were  sporting  with  his  helpless  brain  and  body  and 
mocking  each  other  with  his  voice. 

So  it  went  on,  hour  after  hour,  and  all  the  next  day, 


398  CECILIA 

till  his  strength  seemed  almost  spent.  Lamberti  list= 
ened,  because  he  could  not  help  it  when  he  was  in  the 
room,  and  again  and  again  Cecilia's  name  rang  out, 
and  the  first  passionate  words  of  speeches  that  ran 
into  incoherent  sounds  and  were  drowned  in  a 
groan. 

Lamberti  had  nursed  men  who  were  ill  and  had  seen 
them  die  in  several  ways,  but  he  had  never  taken  care 
of  one  who  was  very  near  to  him.  It  was  bad  enough, 
but  it  was  worse  to  know  that  he  had  an  unwilling 
share  in  causing  his  friend's  suffering,  and  to  feel  that 
if  Guido  lived  he  must  some  day  be  told  that  Lamberti 
had  taken  his  place.  It  was  strangest  of  all  to  hear 
the  name  of  the  woman  he  loved  so  constantly  on  an- 
other's lips.  When  the  two  men  talked  of  her  she  had 
always  been  "the  Contessina,"  while  she  had  been 
"Cecilia "in  the  hearts  of  both. 

There  was  something  in  the  thought  of  not  having 
told  Guido  all  before  the  delirium  seized  him,  that  still 
offended  Lamberti's  scrupulous  loyalty.  It  would  be 
almost  horrible  if  Guido  should  die  without  knowing 
the  truth.  Somehow,  his  consent  still  seemed  need- 
ful to  Lamberti's  love,  and  it  seemed  so  to  Cecilia,  too, 
and  there  was  no  denying  that  he  was  now  in  danger 
of  his  life.  If  he  was  to  die,  there  would  probably  be 
a  lucid  hour  before  death,  but  what  right  would  his 
best  friend  have  to  embitter  those  final  moments  for 
one  who  would  certainly  go  out  of  this  world  with  no 
hope  of  the  next?  Yet,  when  he  was  gone  at  last, 
would  it  be  no  slur  on  the  memory  of  such  true  friend- 


A  STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  399 

ship  to  do  what  would  have  hurt  him,  if  he  could  have 
known  of  it?  Lamberti  was  not  sure.  Like  some 
strong  men  of  rough  temperament,  he  had  hidden  deli- 
cacies of  feeling  that  many  a  girl  would  have  thought 
foolish  and  exaggerated,  and  they  were  the  more  sensi- 
tive because  they  were  so  secret,  and  he  never  suffered 
outward  things  to  come  in  contact  with  them,  nor  spoke 
of  them,  even  to  Guide. 

Some  people  said  that  Guido  was  Quixotic,  and  he 
was  certainly  the  personification  of  honour.  If  the 
papers  Lamberti  had  safe  in  his  pocket  had  come  into 
Guide's  possession  as  they  had  come  into  Lamberti's 
own,  Guido  would  have  sent  them  back  to  Princess 
Anatolie,  quite  sure  that  she  had  a  right  to  them, 
whether  they  were  partly  forged  or  not,  because  he 
had  originally  given  them  to  her  and  nothing  could 
induce  him  to  take  them  back.  The  reason  why 
Guide's  illness  had  turned  into  brain  fever  was  simply 
that  he  believed  his  honourable  reputation  among  men 
to  have  been  gravely  damaged  by  an  article  in  a  news- 
paper. Honour  was  his  god,  his  religion,  and  his  rule 
of  life;  it  was  all  he  had  beyond  the  material  world, 
and  it  was  sacred.  He  had  not  that  something  else, 
simple  but  undefinable,  and  as  sensitive  as  an  uncov- 
ered nerve,  that  lay  under  his  friend's  rougher  charac- 
ter and  sturdier  heart.  Nature  would  never  have 
chosen  him  to  be  one  instrument  in  that  mysterious 
harmony  of  two  sleeping  beings  which  had  linked 
Cecilia  and  Lamberti  in  their  dreams.  It  was  not  the 
melancholy  and  intellectual  Cassius  who  trembled  be- 


400  CECILIA 

fore   Csesar's  ghost  at  Philippi;  it  was  rough  Brutus, 
the  believer  in  himself  and  the  man  of  action. 

The  illness  ran  its  course.  While  it  continued  Lam- 
bert! went  every  other  day  to  the  Palazzo  Massimo 
and  told  the  two  ladies  of  Guido's  state.  He  and 
Cecilia  looked  at  each  other  silently,  but  she  never 
showed  that  she  wished  to  be  alone  with  him,  and  he 
made  no  attempt  to  see  her  except  in  her  mother's 
presence.  Both  felt  that  Guido  was  dying,  and 
knew  that  they  had  some  share  in  his  sufferings.  As 
soon  as  the  Countess  learned  that  the  danger  was  real 
she  gave  up  all  thought  of  leaving  Rome,  and  there 
was  no  discussion  about  it  between  her  and  her 
daughter.  She  was  worldly  and  often  foolish,  but  she 
was  not  unkind,  and  she  had  grown  really  fond  of 
Guido  since  the  spring.  So  they  waited  for  the  turn 
of  the  illness,  or  for  its  sudden  end,  and  the  days 
dragged  on  painfully.  Lamberti  was  as  lean  as  a  man 
trained  for  a  race,  and  the  cords  stood  out  on  his 
throat  when  he  spoke,  but  nothing  seemed  to  tire 
him.  The  good  Countess  lost  her  fresh  colour  and 
grew  listless,  but  she  complained  only  of  the  heat  and 
the  solitude  of  Rome  in  summer,  and  if  she  felt  any 
impatience  she  never  showed  it.  Cecilia  was  as 
slender  and  pale  as  one  of  the  lilies  of  the  Annuncia- 
tion, but  her  eyes  were  full  of  light.  In  the  early 
morning  she  often  used  to  go  with  her  maid  to  the 
distant  church  of  Santa  Croce,  and  late  in  the  after- 
noons she  went  for  long  drives  with  her  mother  in 
the  Campagna.      Twice   Lamberti   came   to  luncheon, 


A   STOBY   OF   MODERK   ROME  401 

and  tlie  three  were  silent  and  subdued  when  they  were 
together. 

Then  the  news  came  that  Princess  Anatolie  had 
died  suddenly  at  her  place  in  Styria,  and  one  of  the 
secretaries  of  the  Austrian  embassy,  who  was  obliged 
to  stay  in  town,  came  to  the  Palazzo  Massimo  the 
same  afternoon  and  told  the  Countess  some  details  of 
the  old  lady's  death.  There  was  certainly  something 
mysterious  about  it,  but  no  one  regretted  her  transla- 
tion to  a  better  world,  though  it  put  a  number  of  high 
and  mighty  persons  into  mourning  for  a  little  while. 

She  died  in  the  drawing-room  after  dinner,  almost 
with  her  coffee  cup  in  her  hand.  It  was  the  heart, 
of  course,  said  the  young  secretary.  Two  or  three 
of  her  relations  were  staying  in  the  house,  and  one  of 
them  was  the  man  who  had  been  at  her  dinner-party 
given  for  the  engaged  couple,  and  who  resembled 
Guido  but  was  older.  The  Countess  remembered  his 
name  very  well.  It  had  leaked  out  that  he  was  exceed- 
ingly angry  at  the  article  in  the  Figaro  and  had  said 
one  or  two  sharp  things  to  the  Princess,  when  Mon- 
sieur Leroy  had  come  in  unexpectedly,  though  the 
Princess  had  sent  him  away  for  a  few  days.  No  one 
knew  exactly  what  followed,  but  Monsieur  Leroy  was 
an  insolent  person  and  the  Princess's  cousin  was  not 
patient  of  impertinence  nor  of  anything  like  an  attack 
on  Guido  d'Este.  It  was  said  that  Monsieur  Leroy 
had  left  the  room  hastily  and  that  the  other  had  fol- 
lowed him  at  once,  in  a  very  bad  temper,  and  that 
the  Princess,  who  thought  Monsieur  Leroy  was  going 

2d 


402  CECILIA 

to  be  badly  hurt,  if  not  killed,  had  ^ied  of  fright, 
without  uttering  a  word  or  a  cry  3  had  always 

been  unaccountably  attached  to  Mo'  si  Leroy.  The 
secretary  glanced  at  Cecilia,  asked  for  -other  cup  of 
tea,  and  discreetly  changed  the  subje  fearing  that 
he  had  already  said  a  little  too  much. 

"I  believe  Guido  may  recover,  now  thab  she  is  dead," 
Lamberti  said,  when  he  heard  the  story. 

The  change  in  Guido's  state  came  one  night  about 
eleven  o'clock,  when  Lamberti  and  the  French  nun 
were  standing  beside  the  bed,  looking  into  his  face  and 
wondering  whether  he  would  open  his  eyes  before  he 
died.  He  had  been  lying  motionless  for  .  lany  hours, 
turned  a  little  on  one  side,  and  his  breathir  y  was  very- 
faint.  There  seemed  to  be  hardly  any  life  left  in  the 
wasted  body. 

"I  think  he  will  die  about  midnight,"  Lamberti 
whispered  to  the  nurse. 

The  good  nun,  who  thought  so  too,  bent  down  and 
spoke  gently  close  to  the  sick  man's  ear.  She  could  not 
bear  to  let  him  go  out  of  life  without  a  Christian  word, 
though  Lamberti  had  told  her  again  and  again  that  his 
friend  believed  in  nothing  beyond  death. 

"You  are  dying,"  she  said,  softly  and  clearly. 
"  Think  of  God  I   Try  to  think  of  God,  Signer  d'Este  ! " 

That  was  all  she  could  find  to  say,  for  she  was  a 
simple  soul  and  not  eloquent ;  but  perhaps  it  might  do 
some  good.     She  knelt  down  then,  by  the  bedside. 

"  Look  1 "  cried  Lamberti  in  a  low  voice,  bending 
forwards. 


A  STORY  OF  MODERN  ROME  403 

Guido  had  c  led  his  eyes,  and  they  were  wide  and 
grave. 

"  Thank  yo'  he  said,  after  a  few  seconds,  faintly 
but  distinctly  •  You  are  very  kind.  But  I  am  not 
going  to  die." 

The  quiet  e^^es  closed,  and  the  mystery  of  life  went 
on  in  silence.  That  was  all  he  had  to  say.  The  nun 
knelt  down  ag.in  and  folded  her  hands,  but  in  less  than 
a  minute  she  rose  and  busied  herself  noiselessly,  pre- 
paring something  in  a  glass.  It  would  be  the  last  time 
that  anything  would  pass  his  lips,  she  thought,  and  it 
might  be  q^'ite  useless  to  give  it  to  him,  but  it  must 
be  ready.  Vtany  and  many  a  time  she  had  heard  the 
dying  declr  e  quietly  that  they  were  out  of  danger. 
Lamberti  stood  motionless  by  the  bedside,  thinking 
much  the  same  things  and  feeling  as  if  his  own  heart 
were  slowly  turning  into  lead. 

He  stood  there  a  long  time,  convinced  that  it  was 
useless  to  send  for  the  doctor,  who  always  came  about 
midnight,  for  Guido  would  probably  be  dead  before  he 
came.  He  would  stop  breathing  presently,  and  that 
would  be  the  end.  The  lids  would  open  a  little,  but 
the  eyes  would  not  see,  there  would  be  a  little  white 
froth  on  the  parted  lips,  and  that  would  be  the  end. 
Guido  would  know  the  great  secret  then. 

But  the  breathing  did  not  cease,  and  the  eyes  did  not 
open  again ;  on  the  contrary,  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour 
Lamberti  was  almost  sure  that  the  lids  were  more 
tightly  closed  than  before,  and  that  the  breath  came 
and  went  with  a  fuller  sound.     In  ten  minutes  more  he 


404  CECILIA 

was  sure  that  the  sick  man  was  peacefully  sleeping,  and 
not  likely  to  die  that  night.  He  turned  away  with 
a  deep  sigh  of  relief. 

The  doctor  came  soon  after  midnight.  He  would 
not  disturb  Guido ;  he  looked  at  him  a  long  time  and 
listened  to  his  breathing,  and  nodded  with  evident 
satisfaction. 

"You  may  begin  to  hope  now,"  he  said  quietly  to 
Lamberti,  not  even  whispering,  for  he  knew  how  deep 
such  sleep  was  sure  to  be.  "  He  may  not  wake  before 
to-morrow  afternoon.  Do  not  be  anxious.  I  will  come 
early  in  the  morning." 

"Very  well,"  answered  Lamberti.  "By  the  bye,  a 
near  relation  of  his  has  died  suddenly  while  he  has 
been  delirious.  Shall  I  tell  him  if  he  wakes  quite 
conscious  ?  " 

"  If  it  will  give  him  great  satisfaction  to  know  of  his 
relative's  death,  tell  him  of  it  by  all  means,"  answered 
the  doctor,  his  quiet  eye  twinkling  a  little,  for  he  had 
often  heard  of  the  Princess  Anatolie,  and  knew  that  she 
was  dead. 

"  I  do  not  think  the  news  will  cause  him  pain,"  said 
Lamberti,  with  perfect  gravity. 

The  doctor  gave  the  nurse  a  few  directions  and  went 
away,  evidently  convinced  that  Guido  was  out  of  all 
immediate  danger.  Then  Lamberti  rested  at  last,  for 
the  nun  slept  in  the  daytime  and  was  fresh  for  the 
night's  watching.  He  stretched  himself  upon  Guido's 
long  chair  in  the  drawing-room,  leaving  the  door  open, 
and  one  light  burning,  so  that  the  nurse  could  call  him 


A   STORY  OF   MODERN   ROME  405 

at  once.  He  had  earned  his  rest,  and  as  he  shut  his 
eyes  his  only  wish  was  that  he  could  have  let  Cecilia 
know  of  the  change  before  he  went  to  sleep.  A  moment 
later  he  was  sitting  beside  her  on  the  bench  in  the  Villa 
Madama,  by  the  fountain,  telling  her  that  Guido  was 
safe  at  last. 

When  he  awoke  the  sun  had  risen  an  hour. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

"  I  AM  like  Dante,"  said  Guido  to  Lamberti,  when  he 
was  recovering.  "  I  have  been  in  Hell,  and  now  I  am 
in  Purgatory.  But  I  shall  not  reach  the  earthly  Para- 
dise at  the  top,  much  less  the  Heaven  beyond." 

He  smiled  sadly  and  looked  at  his  friend. 

"  Who  knows  ?  "  Lamberti  asked,  by  way  of  answer. 

"  Beatrice  will  not  lead  me  further." 

Guido  closed  his  eyes,  and  wondered  why  he  had 
come  back  to  life,  out  of  so  much  suffering,  only  to  be 
tormented  again  in  the  same  way,  perhaps  when  the 
end  really  came.  His  memories  of  his  serious  illness 
were  vague  and  indistinct,  but  they  were  all  horrible. 
He  only  recalled  the  beginning  very  clearly,  how  he 
had  glanced  through  the  newspaper  article  and  had 
dropped  it  in  sudden  and  overwhelming  despair;  and 
then,  how  he  had  roused  himself  and  had  felt  in  the 
drawer  for  his  revolver ;  not  finding  it,  he  had  lost  con- 
sciousness just  as  he  realised  that  even  that  means  of 
escape  from  life  had  been  taken  from  him.  He  remem- 
bered having  felt  as  if  something  broke  in  his  brain, 
though  he  knew  that  he  was  not  dying. 

After  that,  fragments  of  his  ravings  came  back  to 
him  with  the  still  vivid  recollection  of  awful  pain,  of 
monstrous  darkness,  of  lurid  lights,  of  hideous  beings 

406 


A  STORY   OF   MODERN   ROME  407 

glaring  and  gnashing  their  jagged  teeth  at  him,  and  of 
a  continual  discordant  noise  of  voices  that  had  run  all 
through  his  delirium  like  the  crying  out  and  moaning 
of  many  creatures  in  agony.  It  was  no  wonder  that 
he  compared  what  he  remembered  of  his  sufferings  to 
hell  itself. 

And  now  that  he  was  alive,  of  what  use  was  life  to 
him?  His  honour  was  cleared,  indeed,  for  Lamberti 
had  taken  care  of  that.  Lamberti  had  burned  the 
papers  before  his  eyes  after  telling  him  how  Princess 
Anatolie  had  died,  and  had  read  him  the  paragraph 
which  Baron  Goldbirn  had  caused  to  be  inserted  in  the 
Figaro.  The  Princess  was  dead,  and  Monsieur  Leroy 
would  probably  never  trouble  any  one  again.  When 
he  had  squandered  what  she  had  left  him,  he  would 
probably  get  a  living  as  a  medium  in  Vienna.  Guido 
knew  the  secret  of  the  tie  that  bound  him  to  the  Prin- 
cess, but  was  quite  sure  that  the  proud  old  woman  had 
never  let  him  guess  it  himself,  in  spite  of  her  doting 
affection  for  him.  Those  of  her  family  who  knew  it 
would  not  tell  him,  of  all  people,  and  if  Monsieur  Leroy 
ever  begged  money  of  Guido  he  would  not  present  him- 
self as  an  unfortunate  cousin. 

Guido  foresaw  no  difficulties  in  the  future,  but  he 
anticipated  no  happiness,  and  his  life  stretched  before 
him,  colourless,  blank,  and  idle. 

Since  his  delirium  had  ceased,  he  had  not  once  spoken 
of  Cecilia,  and  Lamberti  began  to  fear  that  he  would 
not  allude  to  her  for  a  long  time.  That  did  not  make 
it  easier  to  tell  him  the  story  he  must  hear,  and  the 


408  CECILIA 

time  had  come  when  he  must  hear  it,  come  what  might, 
lest  he  should  ever  think  that  he  had  been  intentionally 
kept  in  ignorance  of  the  truth.  Lamberti  was  glad 
when  he  spoke  of  Cecilia  as  a  Beatrice  who  would  never 
appear  to  lead  him  further,  and  knew  at  once  that  the 
opportunity  must  not  be  lost. 

It  was  the  hardest  moment  in  Lamberti's  life.  It 
had  been  far  easier  to  hide  what  he  felt,  so  long  as  he 
had  not  guessed  that  Cecilia  loved  him,  than  it  was  to 
speak  out  now ;  it  had  cost  Jiim  much  less  to  be  stead- 
fast in  his  silence  with  her  while  Guido's  illness  lasted. 
To  make  Guido  understand  all,  it  would  be  necessary  to 
tell  all  from  the  beginning,  even  to  explaining  that  what 
he  had  taken  for  mutual  aversion  at  first,  had  been  an 
attraction  so  irresistible  that  it  had  frightened  Cecilia 
and  had  made  Lamberti  compare  it  with  a  possession  of 
the  devil  and  a  haunting  spirit. 

The  two  men  were  sitting  on  the  brick  steps  of  the 
miniature  Roman  theatre  close  to  the  oak  which  is  still 
called  Tasso's,  a  few  yards  from  the  new  road  that  leads 
over  the  Janiculum  through  what  was  once  the  Villa 
Corsini.  It  was  shady  there,  and  Rome  lay  at  their 
feet  in  the  still  afternoon.  The  waiting  carriage  was 
out  of  sight,  and  there  was  no  sound  but  the  rustling  of 
leaves  stirred  by  the  summer  breeze.  It  was  nearly  the 
middle  of  August. 

"They  are  still  in  Rome,"  Lamberti  said,  after  a 
moment's  pause,  during  which  he  had  decided  to  speak 
at  last. 

"Are  they?"  asked  Guido,  coldly. 


A   STORY  OF   MODERN  ROME  409 

"  Yes.  Neither  the  Countess  nor  her  daughter  would 
go  away  till  you  were  well." 

"I  am  well  now." 

He  was  painfully  thin  and  his  eyes  were  hollow.  The 
doctor  had  ordered  mountain  air  and  he  was  going  to 
stay  with  one  of  his  relatives  in  the  Austrian  Tyrol  as 
soon  as  he  could  bear  the  journey  without  too  much 
fatigue. 

"They  wish  to  see  you,"  Lamberti  said,  glancing 
sideways  at  his  face. 

"I  cannot  refuse,  but  I  would  rather  not  see  them. 
They  ought  to  understand  that,  I  think." 

He  was  offended  by  what  seemed  very  like  an  intru- 
sion on  the  privacy  of  a  suffering  that  was  still  keen. 
Why  could  they  not  leave  him  alone? 

"They  would  not  have  gone  away  in  any  case  till 
you  recovered,"  Lamberti  answered,  "but  the  Contes- 
sina  would  not  have  the  bad  taste  to  wish  for  a  meeting 
just  now,  unless  there  were  a  reason  which  you  do  not 
know,  and  which  I  must  explain  to  you,  cost  what  it 
may." 

Guido  looked  at  Lamberti  in  surprise  and  then 
laughed  a  little  scornfully. 

"  Is  she  going  to  be  married? "  he  asked. 

"  Perhaps." 

"  Already ! " 

His  tone  was  sad,  and  pitying,  and  slightly  contemp- 
tuous. His  lips  closed  after  the  single  word  and  he 
drew  his  eyelids  together,  as  he  looked  steadily  out  over 
the  deep  city  towards  the  hills  to  eastward. 


410  CECILIA 

"  Then  it  was  true  that  she  cared  for  another  man," 
he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Yes.     It  was  quite  true." 

"  She  wrote  me  in  that  letter  that  he  did  not  know 
it." 

"  That  was  true  also." 

"  And  that  he  was  not  in  the  least  in  love  with  her." 

"She  thought  so." 

"  But  she  was  mistaken,  you  mean  to  say.  He  loved 
her,  but  did  not  show  it." 

"  Precisely.  He  loved  her,  but  he  was  careful  not  to 
show  it  because  he  understood  that  her  mother  and  the 
Princess  wished  to  marry  her  to  you,  and  because  he 
happened  to  know  that  you  were  in  earnest." 

"  That  was  decent  of  him,  at  all  events,"  Guido  said 
wearily.     "  Some  men  would  have  behaved  differently." 

"I  daresay,"  Lamberti  answered. 

''  Is  he  a  man  I  know  ?  " 

"  Yes.     You  know  him  very  well." 

"  And  now  she  has  asked  you  to  tell  me  his  name. 
I  suppose  that  is  why  you  begin  this  conversation. 
You  are  trying  to  break  it  gently  to  me."  He  smiled 
contemptuously. 

"Yes!" 

The  word  was  spoken  as  if  it  cost  an  effort.  Lam- 
berti held  his  stout  stick  with  both  hands  over  his 
crossed  knee  and  leaned  back,  so  that  it  bent  a  little 
with  the  strain. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Guido,  with  a  little  impa- 
tience, "  it  seems  to  me  that  you  need  not  take  so  much 


A  STOBY  OF  MODERN  EOMB  411 

trouble  to  spare  my  feelings  1  If  you  do  not  tell  me 
who  the  man  is,  some  one  else  will." 

"No  one  else  can,"  Lamberti  answered,  with  em- 
phasis. 

"  Why  not  ?  I  would  rather  speak  of  her  with  you, 
if  I  must  speak  of  her  at  all,  of  course.  But  some 
obliging  person  is  sure  to  tell  me,  or  write  to  me  about 
it,  as  soon  as  the  engagement  is  announced.  '  My  dear 
d'Este,  do  you  remember  that  girl  you  were  engaged  to 
last  spring  ?  '     And  so  on.     Remember  her  !  " 

"There  is  no  engagement,"  Lamberti  said.  "No 
one  will  write  to  you  about  it,  and  no  one  knows  who 
the  man  is,  except  the  Contessina  and  the  man  himself." 

"And  you,"  corrected  Guido.  "You  may  as  well 
keep  the  secret,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned.  I  have  no 
curiosity  about  it.  There  will  be  time  enough  to  tell 
me  when  the  engagement  is  announced." 

"  I  do  not  think  that  there  can  be  any  engagement 
until  you  know." 

"Oh,  this  is  absurd!  The  Contessina  was  frank. 
She  did  not  love  me,  she  told  me  so,  and  we  agreed 
that  our  engagement  should  end.  What  possible  claim 
have  I  to  know  whom  she  wishes  to  marry  now  ?  " 

"  You  have  the  strongest  claim  that  any  man  can 
have,  though  not  on  her.     The  man  is  your  friend." 

"  Nonsense ! "  exclaimed  Guido,  becoming  impatient. 
"  A  dozen  men  I  like  might  be  called  friends  of  mine, 
I  suppose,  but  you  know  very  well  that  you  are  the 
only  intimate  friend  I  have." 

"Yes,  I  know-" 


412  CECILIA 

"  Well  ?  I  can  hardly  fancy  that  you  mean  yourself, 
can  I?" 

Lambert!  did  not  move,  but  as  Guido  looked  at  him 
for  an  answer,  he  saw  that  he  could  not  speak  just  then, 
and  that  he  was  clenching  his  teeth.  Guido  stared  at 
him  a  moment  and  then  started. 

"  Lamberti ! "  he  cried  sharply. 

Lamberti  slowly  turned  his  head  and  gazed  into 
Guido's  eyes  without  speaking.  Then  they  both  looked 
out  at  the  distant  hills  in  silence  for  a  long  time. 

"The  Contessina  was  very  loyal  to  you,  Guido," 
Lamberti  said  at  last,  in  a  low  tone.  "  She  could  not 
tell  you  that  it  was  I,  and  I  did  not  know  it.'* 

Again  there  was  a  silence  for  a  time. 

"  When  did  you  know  it  ?  "  Guido  asked  slowly. 

"  After  she  had  been  to  see  you.  It  was  my  fault, 
then." 

"  What  was  your  fault?" 

"  When  we  went  downstairs,  I  thought  I  should  never 
see  her  again,  and  I  never  meant  to.  How  could  I 
know  what  she  felt  ?  She  never  betrayed  herself  by  a 
glance  or  a  tone  of  her  voice.  I  loved  her  with  all  my 
heart,  and  when  you  had  both  told  me  that  everything 
was  quite  over  between  you,  I  wanted  her  to  know  that 
I  did.  Was  that  disloyal  to  you,  since  you  had  defi- 
nitely given  up  the  hope  of  marrying  her,  and  since  I 
did  not  expect  to  see  her  again  for  years  and  thought 
she  was  quite  indifferent  ?  " 

"No,"  Guido  answered,  after  a  moment's  thought. 
"  But  you  should  have  told  me  at  once." 


A   STORY  OF  MODERN  ROME  413 

<*  When  I  came  upstairs  the  Countess  was  still  there, 
and  you  were  quite  worn  out.  I  put  you  to  bed,  mean- 
ing to  tell  you  that  same  evening,  after  you  had  rested. 
When  I  came  back  you  had  brain  fever,  and  did  not 
know  me.     So  I  have  had  to  wait  until  to-day." 

"  And  you  have  seen  each  other  constantly  while  I 
have  been  ill,  of  course,"  said  Guido,  with  some  bitter- 
ness.    "  It  was  natural,  I  suppose." 

"  Since  that  day  when  we  spoke  on  the  staircase  we 
have  only  been  alone  together  once,  for  a  moment.  I 
asked  her  then  if  I  should  tell  her  mother,  and  she  said 
*  Not  yet.'  Excepting  that,  we  have  never  exchanged 
a  word  that  you  and  her  mother  might  not  have  heard, 
nor  a  glance  that  you  might  not  have  seen.  We  both 
knew  that  we  were  waiting  for  you  to  get  well,  and  we 
have  waited." 

Guido  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  wonder. 

"  That  was  like  you,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  You  understand,  now,"  Lamberti  continued.  "  You 
and  I  met  her  on  the  same  day  at  your  aunt's,  and  when 
I  saw  her,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  always  known  her  and  loved 
her.  No  one  can  explain  such  things.  Then  by  a 
strange  coincidence  we  dreamt  the  same  dream,  on  the 
same  night." 

"  Was  it  she  whom  you  met  in  the  Forum,  and  who 
ran  away  from  you  ?  "  asked  Guido,  in  astonishment. 

"Yes.  That  is  the  reason  why  we  always  avoided 
each  other,  and  why  I  would  not  go  to  their  house  till 
you  almost  forced  me  to.  We  had  never  spoken  alone 
together  till  the  garden  party.     It  was  then  that  we 


414  CECILIA 

found  out  that  our  dreams  were  alike,  and  after  that 
I  kept  away  from  her  more  than  ever,  but  I  dreamt  of 
her  every  night." 

"  So  that  was  your  secret,  that  afternoon ! " 

"Yes.  We  had  dreamt  of  each  other  and  we  had 
met  in  the  Forum  in  the  place  we  had  dreamt  of,  and 
she  ran  away  without  speaking  to  me.  That  was  the 
whole  secret.  She  was  afraid  of  me,  and  I  loved  her, 
and  was  beginning  to  know  it.  I  thought  there  was 
something  wrong  with  my  head  and  went  to  see  a 
doctor.  He  talked  to  me  about  telepathy,  but  seemed 
inclined  to  consider  that  it  might  possibly  be  a  mere 
train  of  coincidences.  I  think  I  have  told  you  every- 
thing." 

For  a  long  time  they  sat  side  by  side  in  silence,  each 
thinking  his  own  thoughts. 

"  Is  there  anything  you  do  not  understand?  "  Lamberti 
asked  at  last. 

"  No,"  Guido  answered  thoughtfully.  "  I  understand 
it  all.  It  was  rather  a  shock  at  first,  but  I  am  glad  you 
have  told  me.  Perhaps  I  do  not  quite  understand  why 
she  wishes  to  see  me." 

"  We  both  wish  to  be  sure  that  you  bear  us  no  ill- 
will.     I  am  sure  she  does,  and  I  know  that  I  do." 

There  was  a  pause  again. 

"Do  you  think  I  am  that  kind  of  friend?"  Guido 
asked,  with  a  little  sadness.  "After  what  you  have 
done,  too  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  my  mere  existence  has  broken  up  your 
life,  after  all,"  Lamberti  answered. 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN  ROME  415 

"You  must  not  tliink  that.  Please  do  not,  my 
friend.  There  is  only  one  thing  that  could  hurt  me 
now  that  it  is  all  over." 

"What  is  that?" 

"I  am  not  afraid  that  it  will  happen.  You  are  not 
the  kind  of  man  to  break  her  heart." 

"No,"  Lamberti  answered  very  quietly.  "I  am 
not." 

"  It  was  only  a  dream  for  me,  after  all,"  Guido  said, 
after  a  little  while.  "  You  have  the  reality.  She  used 
to  talk  of  three  great  questions,  and  I  remember  them 
now  as  if  I  heard  her  asking  them :  '  What  can  I  know  ? 
What  is  it  my  duty  to  do  ?  What  may  I  hope  ? '  Those 
were  the  three." 

"  And  the  answers  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  nothing,  nothing.  Those  are  my  answers. 
Unless  —  " 

He  stopped. 

"  Unless  —  what  ?  "  Lamberti  asked. 

Guido  smiled  a  little. 

"Unless  there  is  really  something  beyond  it  all, 
something  essentially  true,  something  absolute  by 
nature." 

Lamberti  had  never  known  his  friend  to  admit  such  a 
possibility  even  under  a  condition. 

"  At  all  events,"  Guido  added,  "  our  friendship  is 
true  and  absolute.  Shall  we  go  home  ?  I  feel  a  little 
tired." 

Lamberti  helped  him  to  the  carriage  and  drew  the 
light  cover  over  his  knees  before  getting  in  himself- 


416  CECILIA 

» 

Then  they  drove  down  towards  the  city,  by  the  long 
and  beautiful  drive,  past  the  Acqua  Paola  and  San 
Pietro  in  Montorio. 

"  You  must  go  and  see  her  this  evening,"  Guido  said 
gently,  as  they  came  near  the  Palazzo  Farnese.  "  Will 
you  tell  her  something  from  me  ?  Tell  her,  please,  that 
it  would  be  a  little  hard  for  me  to  talk  with  her  now, 
but  that  she  must  not  think  I  am  not  glad  that  she  is 
going  to  marry  my  best  friend." 

"  Thank  you.  I  will  say  that."  Lamberti's  voice  was 
less  steady  than  Guido's. 

"And  tell  her  that  I  will  write  to  her  from  the 
Tyrol." 

"  Yes.'* 

It  was  over.  The  two  men  knew  that  their  faithful 
friendship  was  unshaken  still,  and  that  they  should 
meet  on  the  morrow  and  trust  each  other  more  than 
ever.  But  on  this  evening  it  was  better  that  each 
should  go  his  own  way,  the  one  to  his  solitude  and  his 
thoughts,  the  other  to  the  happiest  hour  of  his  life. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

On  the  following  afternoon  Lamberti  waited  for 
Cecilia  at  the  Villa  Madama,  and  she  came  not  long 
after  him,  with  Petersen.  He  had  been  to  the  Palazzo 
Massimo  in  the  evening,  and  a  glance  and  a  sign  had 
explained  to  her  that  all  was  well.  Then  they  had 
sat  together  awhile,  talking  in  a  low  tone,  while  the 
Countess  read  the  newspaper.  When  Lamberti  had 
given  Guido's  brave  message,  they  had  looked  earnestly 
at  each  other,  and  had  agreed  to  tell  her  mother  the 
truth  at  once,  and  to  meet  on  the  morrow  at  the  villa, 
which  was  Cecilia's  own  house,  after  all.  For  they 
felt  that  they  must  be  really  alone  together,  to  say  the 
only  words  that  really  mattered. 

The  head  gardener  had  admitted  Lamberti  to  the  close 
garden,  by  the  outer  steps,  but  had  not  let  him  into  the 
house,  as  he  had  received  no  orders.  When  Cecilia 
came,  he  accompanied  her  with  the  keys  and  opened 
wide  the  doors  of  the  great  hall.  Cecilia  and  Lamberti 
did  not  look  at  each  other  while  they  waited,  and  when 
the  man  was  gone  away  Cecilia  told  Petersen  to  sit 
down  in  the  court  of  honour  on  the  other  side  of  the 
little  palace.  Petersen  went  meekly  away  and  left  the 
two  to  themselves. 

2e  417 


418  CECILIA 

They  walked  very  slowly  along  the  path  towards  the 
fountain,  and  past  it,  to  the  parapet  at  the  other  end, 
where  they  had  talked  long  ago.  But  as  they  passed 
the  bench,  they  glanced  at  it  quietly,  and  saw  that  it 
was  still  in  its  place.  Cecilia  had  not  been  at  the  villa 
since  the  afternoon  before  Guido  fell  ill,  and  Lamberti 
had  never  come  there  since  the  garden  party  in  May. 

They  stood  still  before  the  low  wall  and  looked 
across  the  shoulder  of  the  hill.  Saving  commonplace 
words  at  meeting,  they  had  not  spoken  yet.  Cecilia 
broke  the  silence  at  last,  looking  straight  before  her, 
her  lids  low,  her  face  quiet,  almost  as  if  she  were  in  a 
dream. 

"Have  we  done  all  that  we  could  do,  all  that  we 
ought  to  do  for  him?  "  she  asked.     "Are  you  sure?  " 

"We  can  do  nothing  more,"  Lamberti  answered 
gravely. 

"Tell  me  again  what  he  said.  I  want  the  very 
words." 

"He  said,  'Tell  her  that  it  would  be  a  little  hard  for 
me  to  talk  with  her  now,  but  that  she  must  not  think  I 
am  not  glad  that  she  is  going  to  marry  my  best  friend. ' 
He  said  those  words,  and  he  said  he  would  write  to  you 
from  the  Tyrol.     He  leaves  to-morrow  night." 

"He  has  been  very  generous,"  Cecilia  said  softly. 

"Yes.     He  will  be  your  best  friend,  as  he  is  mine." 

She  knew  that  it  was  true. 

"We  have  done  what  we  can,"  Lamberti  continued 
presently.  "He  has  given  all  he  has,  and  we  have 
given  him  what  we  could.     The  rest  is  ours." 


A   STOBY  OF  MODERK  ROME  419 

He  took  her  hand  and  drew  her  gently,  turning  back 
towards  the  fountain. 

"It  was  like  this  in  the  dream,"  she  said,  scarcely 
breathing  the  words  as  she  walked  beside  him. 

They  stood  still  before  the  falling  water,  quite  alone 
and  out  of  sight  of  every  one,  in  the  softening  light, 
and  suddenly  the  girl's  heart  beat  hard,  and  the  man's 
face  grew  pale,  and  they  were  facing  each  other,  hands 
in  hands,  look  in  look,  thought  in  thought,  soul  in  soul ; 
and  they  remembei^ed  that  day  when  each  had  learned 
the  other's  secret  in  the  shadowy  staircase  of  the  palace, 
and  each  dreamt  again  of  a  meeting  long  ago  in  the 
House  of  the  Vestals ;  but  only  the  girl  knew  what 
she  had  felt  of  mingled  joy  and  regret  when  she  had 
sat  alone  at  night  weeping  on  the  steps  of  the 
Temple. 

There  was  no  veil  between  them  now,  as  their  eyes 
drew  them  closer  together  by  slow  and  delicious  degrees. 
It  was  the  first  time,  though  every  instant  was  full  of 
memories,  all  ending  where  this  was  to  begin.  Their 
lips  had  never  met,  yet  the  thrill  of  life  meeting  life 
and  the  blinding  delight  of  each  in  the  other  were  long 
familiar,  as  from  ages,  while  fresh  and  untasted  still 
as  the  bloom  on  a  flower  at  dawn. 

Then,  when  they  had  kissed  once,  they  sat  down  in 
the  old  place,  wondering  what  words  would  come,  and 
whether  they  should  ever  need  words  at  all  after  that. 
And  somehow,  Cecilia  thought  of  her  three  questions, 
and  they  all  were  answered  as  youth  answers  them,  in 
one  way  and  with  one  word;  and  the  answer  seemed  so 


420  CECILIA 

full  of  meaning,  and  of  faith  and  hope  and  charity,  that 
the  questions  need  never  be  asked  again,  nor  any  others 
like  them,  to  the  end  of  her  life ;  nor  did  she  believe 
that  she  could  ever  trouble  her  brain  again  about  Thus 
spake  ZaratJiushthra,  and  the  Man  who  had  killed  God, 
and  the  overcoming  of  Pity,  and  the  Eternal  Return, 
and  all  those  terrible  and  wonderful  things  that  live  in 
Nietzsche's  mazy  web,  waiting  to  torment  and  devour 
the  poor  human  moth  that  tries  to  fly  upward. 

But  as  for  Kant's  Categorical  Imperative,  in  order  to 
act  in  such  a  manner  that  the  reasons  for  her  actions 
might  be  considered  a  universal  law,  it  was  only  neces- 
sary to  realise  how  very  much  she  loved  the  man  she 
had  chosen,  and  how  very  much  he  loved  her;  for  how 
indeed  could  it  then  be  possible  not  to  live  so  as  to 
deserve  to  be  happy  ? 

She  had  thought  of  these  things  during  the  night  and 
had  fallen  asleep  very  happy  in  realising  the  perfect 
simplicity  of  all  science,  philosophy,  and  transcenden- 
tal reasoning,  and  vaguely  wondering  why  every  one 
could  not  solve  the  problems  of  the  universe  as  she  had. 

"Is  it  all  quite  true?"  she  asked  now,  with  a  little 
fluttering  wonder.  "  Shall  I  wake  and  hear  the  door 
shutting,  and  be  alone,  and  frightened  as  I  used  to  be  ?" 

Lamberti  smiled. 

"I  should  have  waked  already,"  he  said,  "when  we 
were  standing  there  by  the  fountain.  I  always  did 
when  I  dreamt  of  you." 

"So  did  I.  Do  you  think  we  really  met  in  our 
dreams  ?  "     She  blushed  faintly. 


A   STORY   OF   MODERN  ROME  421 

^Do  you  know  that  you  have  not  told  me  once  to-day 
that  you  care  for  me,  ever  so  little  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  have  told  you  much  more  than  that,  a  thousand 
times  over,  in  a  thousand  ways." 

"I  wonder  whether  we  really  met  I  " 


MARIETTA 

A  MAID  OF  VENICE 

By   F.   MARION    CRAWFORD 

Author  of  "  Saracinesca,"  etc. 

Cloth.        i2mo.        $1.50 


"There  are  two  important  departments  of  the  novelist's  art  in  which 
Marion  Crawford  is  entirely  at  home.  He  can  tell  a  love  story  better  than 
any  one  now  living  save  the  unapproachable  George  Meredith.  And  he 
can  describe  the  artistic  temperament  and  the  artistic  environment  with  a 
security  born  of  infallible  instinct."  —  The  New  York  Herald. 

"This  is  not  the  first  time  that  Mr.  Crawford's  pen  has  drawn  the 
conscious  love  of  a  pure  girl  for  a  man  whose  own  heart  she  believed  to 
be  untouched,  yet,  in  the  love  of  Marietta  for  the  Dalmatian,  we  have 
something  that,  while  so  utterly  human,  is  so  delicately  revealed  that  the 
reader  must  be  a  stoic  indeed  who  does  not  take  a  delightful  interest  in 
the  fate  of  that  love."  —  New  York  Times, 

"  It  suggests  the  bright  shimmer  of  the  moon  on  still  waters,  the  soft 
gliding  of  brilliant-hued  gondolas,  the  tuneful  voices  of  the  gondoliers 
keeping  rhythmic  time  to  the  oar  stroke  and  the  faint  murmuring  of 
lovers'  vows  lightly  made  and  lightly  broken."  —  Richmond  Dispatch, 

"Furnishes  another  illustration  of  the  author's  remarkable  facility  in 
assimilating  different  atmospheres,  and  in  mastering,  in  a  minute  way,  as 
well  as  sympathetically,  very  diverse  conditions  of  life.  .  .  .  The  plot  is 
intricate,  and  is  handled  with  the  ease  and  skill  of  a  past-master  in  the 
art  of  story-telling." —  Outlook, 

"The  workshop,  its  processes,  the  ways  and  thought  of  the  time,  —  all 
this  is  handled  in  so  masterly  a  manner,  not  for  its  own  sake,  but  for  that 
of  the  story.  ...  It  has  charm,  and  the  romance  which  is  eternally 
human,  as  well  as  that  which  was  of  the  Venice  of  that  day.  And  over  it 
all  there  is  an  atmosphere  of  worldly  wisdom,  of  understanding,  sympathy, 
and  tolerance,  of  intuition  and  recognition,  that  makes  Marion  Crawford 
the  excellent  companion  he  is  in  his  books  for  mature  men  and  women." 

—  New  York  Mail  and  Express. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

QQ  FIFTH  AVENUE,   NEW  YORK 


I 


WRITINGS   OF  F.   MARION  CRAWFORD 


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A  Roman  Singer 

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Rose  of  Yesterday 

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CORLEONE 

A  TALE  OF  SICILY 

The  last  of  the  famous  Saracinesca  Series 

"  It  is  by  far  the  most  stirring  and  dramatic  of  all  the  author's  Italian  stories.  . .  .  The 
plot  is  a  masterly  one,  bringing  at  almost  every  page  a  fresh  surprise,  keeping  the  reader 
m  suspense  to  the  very  end." —  The  Times ^  New  York. 

MR.  ISAACS 

**  It  is  lofty  and  uplifting.  It  is  strongly,  sweetly,  tenderly  written.  It  is  in  all 
respects  an  uncommon  novel."  —  The  Literary  World, 

DR.  CLAUDIUS 

**  The  characters  are  strongljr  marked  without  any  suspicion  of  caricature,  and  the 
author's  ideas  on  social  and  political  subjects  are  often  brilliant  and  always  striking.  It 
is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  there  is  not  a  dull  page  in  the  book,  which  is  peculiarly 
adapted  for  the  recreation  of  the  student  or  thinker."  —  Living  Church. 

A  ROMAN   SINGER 

•*  A  powerful  story  of  art  and  love  in  Rome." —  The  New  York  Observer, 

AN  AMERICAN  POLITICIAN 

*'  One  of  the  characters  is  a  visiting  Englishman.  Possibly  Mr.  Crawford's  long  resi- 
dence abroad  has  made  him  select  such  a  hero  as  a  safeguard  against  slips,  which  does 
not  seem  to  have  been  needed.  His  insight  into  a  phase  of  politics  with  which  he  could 
hardly  be  expected  to  be  familiar  is  remarkable."  —  Buffalo  Express, 


TO  LEEWARD 

"  It  is  an  admirable  tale  of  Italian  life  told  in  a  spirited  way  and  tar  better  than  mos5 
of  the  fiction  current."  —  San  Francisco  Chronicle, 

ZOROASTER 

"  As  a  matter  of  literary  art  solely,  we  doubt  if  Mr.  Crawford  has  ever  before  given  us 
better  work  than  the  description  of  Belshazzar's  feast  with  which  the  story  begins,  or  the 
death-scene  with  which  it  closes."  —  The  Christian  Union  (now  The  Outlook), 

A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH 

**  It  is  a  pleasure  to  have  anything  so  perfect  of  its  kind  as  this  brief  and  vivid  story. 
It  is  doubly  a  success,  being  full  of  human  sympathy,  as  well  as  thoroughly  artistic." 

—  The  Critic, 

MARZIO'S   CRUCIFIX 

"  We  take  the  liberty  of  saying  that  this  work  belongs  to  the  highest  department  cii 
character-painting  in  words." —  The  Churchman, 

PAUL  PATOFF 

"  It  need  scarcely  be  said  that  the  story  is  skilfully  and  picturesquely  written,  portiay- 
ing  sharply  individusd  characters  in  well-defined  surroundings." 

—  New  York  Commercial  Advertiser, 

PIETRO   GHISLERI 

"  The  strength  of  the  story  lies  not  only  in  the  artistic  and  highly  dramatic  working 
out  of  the  plot,  but  also  in  the  penetrating  analysis  and  understandmg  of  the  impulsive 
and  passionate  Italian  character."  —  Public  Opinion, 

THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  KING 

"  One  of  the  most  artistic  and  exquisitely  finished  pieces  of  work  that  Crawford  has 
produced.  The  picturesque  setting,  Calabria  and  its  surroundings,  the  beautiful  Sorrento 
and  the  Gulf  of  Salerno,  with  the  bewitching  accessories  that  climate,  sea,  and  sky  afford, 
give  Mr.  Crawford  rich  opportunities  to  show  his  rare  descriptive  powers.  As  a  whole 
the  book  is  strong  and  beautiful  through  its  simplicity."  —  Public  Opinion, 

MARION  DARCHE 

"We  are  disposed  to  rank*  Marion  Darche '  as  the  best  of  Mr.  Crawford's  American 
stories."  —  The  Literary  World. 

KATHERINE  LAUDERDALE 

"  It  need  scarcely  be  said  that  the  story  is  skilfully  and  picturesquely  written,  portrays 
ing  sharply  individual  characters  in  well-defined  surroundings." 

—  New  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 

THE  RALSTONS 

**  The  whole  group  of  character  studies  is  strong  and  vivid."—  Tk§  Literary  World, 

LOVE  IN  IDLENESS 

"  The  story  is  told  in  the  author's  lightest  vein;  it  is  bright  and  entertaining." 

—  The  Literary  World, 

CASA  BRACCIO 

"  We  are  grateful  when  Mr.  Crawford  keeps  to  his  Italy.  The  poetry  and  enchant- 
ment of  the  land  are  all  his  own,  and  *  Casa  Braccio '  gives  promise  of  bemg  his  master- 
piece. ...  He  has  the  life,  the  beauty,  the  heart,  and  the  soul  of  Italy  at  the  tips  of  his 
fingers."  —  Los  Angeles  Express. 


TAQUISARA 

"  A  charming  story  this  is,  and  one  which  will  certainly  be  liked  by  all  admirers  ol 
Mr.  Crawford's  work."  —  New  York  Herald, 

ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S   SON  and  A  ROSE  OF  YESTERDAY 

"  It  is  not  only  one  of  the  most  enjoyable  novels  that  Mr.  Crawford  has  ever  written, 
but  is  a  novel  that  will  make  people  think."  —  Boston  Beacon. 

**  Don't  miss  reading  Marion  Crawford's  new  novel,  *  A  Rose  of  Yesterday.*  It  is 
brief,  but  beautiful  and  strong.  It  is  as  charming  a  piece  of  pure  idealism  as  ever  came 
from  Mr.  Crawford's  pen."  —  Chicago  Tribune. 

SARACINESCA 

**  The  work  has  two  distinct  merits,  either  of  which  would  serve  to  make  it  great :  that 
of  telling  a  perfect  story  in  a  perfect  way,  and  of  giving  a  graphic  picture  of  Roman  soci- 
ety. .  .  .  The  story  is  exquisitely  told,  and  is  the  author's  highest  achievement,  as  yet, 
in  the  realm  of  fiction."  —  The  Boston  Traveler. 

SANT»  ILARIO 

A  SEQUEL  TO  SARACINESCA 

"  A  singularly  powerful  and  beautiful  story.  .  .  .  It  fulfils  every  requirement  of 
artistic  fiction,  it  brings  out  what  is  most  impressive  in  human  action,  without  owing 
any  of  its  effectiveness  to  sensationalism  or  artifice.  It  is  natural,  fluent  in  evolution, 
accordant  with  experience,  graphic  in  description,  penetrating  in  analysis,  and  absorbing 
in  interest."  —  The  New  York  Tribune, 

DON  ORSINO 

A  SEQUEL  TO   SARACINESCA  AND   SANT*  ILARIO 

**  Offers  exceptional  enjoyment  in  many  ways,  in  the  fascinating  absorption  of  good 
fiction,  in  the  interest  of  faithful  historic  accuracy,  and  in  charm  of  style.  The  *  New 
Italy'  is  strikingly  revealed  in  *  Don  Orsino.'  "  —  Boston  Budget, 

WITH  THE  IMMORTALS 

•*  The  strange  central  idea  of  the  story  could  have  occurred  only  to  a  writer  whose 
mind  was  very  sensitive  to  the  current  of  modern  thought  and  progress,  while  its  execu- 
tion, the  setting  it  forth  in  proper  literary  clothing,  could  be  successfully  attemF>ted  only 
by  one  whose  active  literary  ability  should  be  fully  equalled  by  his  power  of  assimilative 
knowledge  both  literary  and  scientific,  and  no  less  by  his  courage^j^  and  so  have  a  fascina- 
tion entirely  new  for  the  habitual  reader  of  novels.  Indeed,  Mr.  Crawford  has  succeeded 
in  taking  his  readers  quite  above  the  ordinary  plane  of  novel  interest." 

—  The  Boston  Advertiser, 

GREIFENSTEIN 

"...  Another  notable  contribution  to  the  literature  of  the  day.  Like  all  Mr.  Craw- 
ford's work,  this  novel  is  crisp,  clear,  and  vigorous,  and  will  be  read  with  a  great  deal  of 
interest."  — iV>«;  York  Evening  Telegram. 

A  CIGARETTE-MAKER'S   ROMANCE  and  KHALED 

''  It  is  a  touching  romance,  filled  with  scenes  of  great  dramatic  power."  ^ 

—  Boston  Commercial  Bulletin. 

*'  It  abounds  in  stirring  incidents  and  barbaric  picturesqueness ;  and  the  love  struggle 
of  the  unloved  Khaled  is  manly  in  its  simplicity  and  noble  in  its  ending." 

'  —  The  Mail  and  Express. 

THE  WITCH  OF  PRAGUE 

"  The  artistic  ikill  with  which  this  extraordinary  story  is  constructed  and  carried  out 
is  admirable  and  delightful.  ...  Mr.  Crawford  has  scored  a  decided  triumph,  for  the 
interest  of  the  tale  is  sustained  throughout.  ...  A  very  remarkable,  powerful,  ana 
interesting  story." — New  York  Tribune. 


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